


Heat-Trace

by Helen Raven (helenraven)



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 14:42:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 23
Words: 252,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10743801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helenraven/pseuds/Helen%20Raven
Summary: A sequel of sorts to the circuit story "Brother's Keeper", which is included with the story. Bodie is in CI5 and Doyle is a police constable. They meet and become lovers when work takes them to North Africa, and decide to continue the relationship when they get back to London but to keep it secret. They find it steadily more difficult to make one another happy, given the demands of their jobs, the strain of keeping the relationship secret, and their particular psychological needs.





	1. Introduction as it appeared in the original zine

**Author's Note:**

> This novel was originally published in the form of a zine in 1992. It has been available for some years at the Helen Raven website - <http://www.kelper.co.uk/helenraven/> \- and I am finally getting my act together and posting it here. You can get the entire novel in a single file from the Helen Raven website, with a choice of four formats: as an ePub file, a mobi file, a PDF file with 2 columns (as in the original zine), and a PDF file with a single column.
> 
> In the original two-column format of the zine, there were no spaces between paragraphs within a section, and I used indents at the start of paragraphs, with a line-break to indicate the start of a new section. This approach doesn't work with HTML, and for posting here and for the three other formats, I have removed the indents and use a line with asterisks to separate sections. Where the sections are short, I have found that the asterisk-lines are quite jarring compared with the "quiet" breaks in the zine, but after several days of dithering I have decided to leave these jarring breaks as they are; removing any of them would involve editing the novel compared with the original version, and I do not want to get into that.

# Introduction as it appeared in the original zine

_“Brother’s Keeper”: the story I couldn’t get out of my head_

“Brother’s Keeper” reached the UK in 1984, and I think I read it in that year. It got to me immediately - the idea of the two wounded men finding healing in one another, becoming one another’s true family. The only problem was that it was too short - I wanted more, much more, of the two of them taking on the world. For six years I lulled myself to sleep thinking vaguely about their first meeting back in London, and then I finally took myself in hand and started writing about it.

_Why “Heat-Trace” is not a true sequel_

The last few pages of “Brother’s Keeper” imply very strongly that Doyle will join CI5 and the two men will carry on as we know them. In “Heat-Trace”, this implication is ignored.

When you go on to read “Heat-Trace” after “Brother’s Keeper”, imagine that Cowley does not appear for the de-briefing, or that Doyle does not overhear it, so that Doyle wakes up the next morning still not knowing what Bodie is.

_To the author of “Brother’s Keeper”: Thank you, thank you, thank you._

Thank you first of all for writing the story. And then for giving me permission to include it in the zine, even though you had read not a word of “Heat-Trace”, and could not know what I was doing to your characters. I hope you enjoy it.

_To the reader: a warning_

“Heat-Trace” is not light reading. I wrote it for myself, and I like a serious wallow (as long as there’s a happy ending of some description). Don’t tackle it if you’re in the mood for something relaxing to read in the bath at the end of a hard day.

_Copyright_

Produced and published by Peartree Press

Copyright (C) September 1992

“Heat-Trace” is an amateur fan publication and is not intended to infringe the rights of Brian Clemens, London Weekend Television, or any other holders of “The Professionals” copyright. The original material within this publication is copyrighted to the authors and the artist.


	2. The "Brother's Keeper" story

# Brother’s Keeper by an anonymous author

“What’s put you into such a good mood, Ali?” Bodie asked idly, his hands playing with the stock of his rifle. Seated in the stuffy confines of the slave-dealer’s tent, he waited for his headman to tell him all the slaves were present and accounted for, and in good condition, before they began the long trek back to the Rassouli.

Ali ben Yussef smirked back at him, his pudgy, bejeweled fingers expressive. “I have avenged my honour, Hadji Bodie.”

“Oh, who tarnished it?” Bodie’s sardonic gaze went around the tent. Rich though the hangings were, dirt and flies were everywhere.

“The English, who else?” Ben Yussef waved his hands again. “I do not mean you, who are a man of sense, my friend, and understanding. But your government ... bah!” He leaned forward confidentially. “There was this dog of your police who dared arrest my agents, simply because they procured a woman or two.”

“Or twenty, or a hundred,” Bodie said, eyes hooded.

“Eh. What is a woman?” Ali shrugged. “He disrupted my operations severely, cutting into my profits for the year. And into the profits of my people in England.” A smile crept over the huge face of the fat man. “But now I have my revenge. Come, behold it.”

He got up and waddled to one of the curtained partitions and swept aside the hangings. There, bound hand and foot was a man, his matted hair brownish-red. Bruised and with crusted blood on him, he didn’t look prepossessing. His face was uneven, with a broken, healed-over cheekbone. All-in-all, he was nothing to crow over.

“He is my prize,” Ali gloated. “Perhaps I shall cut him and sell him to a sheik. A pity he is so old, the young fetch a better price. Or should I use him myself?” he mused. “It is too bad the Rassouli has no desire for males, or I would send him a gift.” His smile spread evilly across his face again as he told the bound man, “Up, dog of a Nasrani!”

Bodie gazed down at the bound captive and a faint interest stirred at the back of his blue eyes. The man might not understand what was being said over his head in Arabic, but he clearly knew that his fate was not going to be pleasant. And yet his eyes spit green fire at Ali and Bodie impartially, the gag restraining him from further imprudence.

“English, eh?” Bodie mused aloud, and the eyes focussed on him, narrowing. “I like the hair,” he continued in Arabic to Ali. He bent and ran his fingers through the wiry curls, following the line of the skull to be sure there was no hidden head injury, and found that he’d spoken the truth. Dirty and matted with blood, the texture still pleased his sense of touch.

“It _is_ an unusual colour,” Ali agreed. “I wish he were a woman, I could sell him for more. But there are enthusiasts who will pay a good price, even so. Look,” he swept his fat fingers down the policeman’s lean body, jerking away the scraps of rags that still concealed his crotch.

“Nice,” Bodie agreed when the oil lamp was lifted to give better light. The fire picked up and high-lighted the tight curls, a brighter red-gold than the hair on the head or the thin line of down that barely arrowed the flat chest. “Bet you get a ginger moustache when it grows in, mate,” Bodie sagely said in English, and the fury in the man’s eyes grew. But fear was there, too, as Ali probed and handled him.

“He is a good size, you see,” Ali pursed his lips. “He can be used as he is, then cut when his master tires of him.”

“Huh.” Bodie didn’t like watching Ali’s hands on his merchandise. He swept his eyes up and down the bound man again, considering him as he would assess a fine horse. “Let him be, Ali.”

“What?” The Arab looked up, his face snarling with frustration as the Englishman refused to respond.

“I said let go,” Bodie grunted. “How much are you asking for him?”

“For you? But the Rassouli only lies with women.” Ali gaped at him.

“Yeah. Any woman. And that includes whoever he fancies, his men’s women or mine. I like my bed-mate to be mine alone.” Bodie leaned down and pointedly removed Ali’s hand from the Englishman’s crotch. “I reckon you had him brought here untouched for your revenge,” he mused aloud. “Be a new twist, ‘avin’ a virgin. Don’t think I ever ‘ave before.”

“But my vengeance,” Ali protested.

“How much?” Bodie responded cynically. “You think he’s going to have an easy time of it travelling out to the Riff and staying with me? Besides,” he added carelessly, his hands checking his rifle’s chamber as he squinted down the barrel, “Maybe I’ll tire of ‘im by the next trip and sell ‘im back to you.”

Ali licked his lips. “I never knew you took men to your bed. You have never looked at the pretty boys I sell.”

“I don’t like _boys_ ,” Bodie said harshly. “There are lots of things you don’t know about me, old son.” He turned a wolfish grin on the slave-merchant. “Name your price, I’m gettin’ randy just looking at ‘im.”

Ali’s eyes dropped automatically and he was immediately impressed by the bulging crotch on Bodie’s trousers. Still, he was cautious. These English ... even the sane ones like Bodie sometimes went crazy and did stupid things for unfathomable reasons. Or for a jest.

“A hundred pieces of gold,” he said, making up his mind. “And I want part of my vengeance now. I will take him before he leaves.”

“No.” Bodie didn’t bother looking at him. “That’s too much. Fifty gold pieces. And I told you, I don’t like sharing. I could buy a woman and let the Rassouli have her for a night if I wanted that.”

Frustrated, Ali kicked idly at the bound man. His cunning mind turned over Bodie’s words. The money was important, but revenge was better ... He smiled, and Bodie’s hand tightened on his rifle.

“I will take eighty gold pieces and forgo my vengeance for now,” Ali conceded handsomely. “But I will see you use him before you may have him. Yes,” he spat on the floor of his tent. “When I have seen him humbled, know for sure that you will treat him as he deserves, that will help satisfy me. Too good to take my agent’s gold, too pure to sell women, dog! Now you will know your true place, Nasrani pig!”

He spat again.

Bodie hooded his blue eyes. “I don’t like performing in public,” he said coldly.

Ali drew himself up and made the sign that indicated he’d made his final offer.

Bodie’s mouth tightened, then twisted into a wry smile as he looked down on the bound man.

“Sorry, mate,” he said in English with a shrug. “We do it ‘is way. Won’t be too ‘ard, you’re easy enough on the eyes.” Deliberately he strode to the tent-flap and spoke to someone out of sight. Then he came back and set his rifle down. His hands going to his belt and undoing it, he said with hard intent to Ali, “My men surround this place. If I do not come out within the hour, or if I am hurt, your life is not worth _his_ ,” his chin pointed to the Englishman.

Sweat broke out on Ali’s face. He knew the men Bodie captained. “In Allah’s name no harm with befall you,” he prayed.

“Shouldn’t now,” Bodie agreed complacently. He kicked off his boots, stepped out of his trousers and underpants and turned to the policeman.

The green eyes were wide and now the fear was very real. Bodie’s eyes flicked to Ali; he knew the Arab spoke English, but was unsure how much. He leaned forward and deliberately ripped the gag off. Tears of pain came to the bound man’s eyes and he coughed, trying to clear his throat of accumulated phlegm.

“There’s no one to hear you scream or beg except Ali here, me and my men,” Bodie said, his voice reasonable as he squatted by the man’s side. “What’s your name?”

“Doyle,” he croaked.

Bodie nodded. “Irish, that fits your colouring, ginger. Ali’s sold you to me, but I ‘ave to do you first. Otherwise no sale.”

The man stiffened, muscles bunching to fight. “Do me?”

“Fuck you.” Bodie continued matter-of-factly, “The more you fight, the more he’ll enjoy it. And the more I’ll have to hurt you. It’s up to you.” His dark blue eyes met the blazing green ones with cold purpose. “Or I can get up and walk out and leave you to ‘im. What’s your choice?”

“No choice at all. You or ‘im, then? Get fucked by you or ‘im, is that it?”

“Real bright, ginger. That’s it. You kind of hurt his pride, breakin’ up his acquisition of merchandise.” Bodie’s lips twitched, and Doyle’s sharp eyes caught the indication of humour. “He figures to get back at you by turnin’ you into somethin’ he can sell. You’re a bit old for it, but once he fixes you, well, eunuchs are always popular.” He waited. Doyle’s nostrils were flared as he breathed in and out, slowly and steadily, thinking.

“Are you any better than him?”

“Some. Not much,” Bodie admitted easily. “I won’t cut your balls, and hurting people isn’t how I get my jollies.”

“No, only fucking men, is that it?” Doyle deliberately rolled over onto his stomach. “Do it,” he gritted out between clenched teeth, staring at the carpet under him.

Bodie leaned over and kissed his ear, amused at the wince. “That’s for bein’ a good boy,” he said and took out his knife, cutting the legs free with one easy stroke. “Figured you were smart. That didn’t take you long at all.”

Ali’s head jerked up in alarm. “He will run!”

“Where’s ‘e got to run to?” Bodie asked in English. “No place to go, doesn’t sling the lingo, no money ... ‘E’s better off waitin’ until ‘e gets a better chance.”

Ali eyed him suspiciously. “Are you going to break him in or not? The bargain -“

“Will be met. But I’m not goin’ to hurt meself just to give you pleasure,” Bodie snorted. He took his bullet-pouch from his belt and uncapped the small canister of oil he kept for cleaning and lubricating his weapons. “This’ll do.”

Ali frowned as Bodie, unconcerned with the Arab’s reactions, stroked in onto his steadily engorging prick. “That will not hurt him enough.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’ll be excruciatin’ly great fun for ‘im,” Bodie said sarcastically in English. “Belt up, I like me privacy.” He squeezed more oil out and coated his fingers liberally, gingerly probing Doyle’s asshole with one finger, then with two. “’Ello. Not quite so virgin as all that. Tch. Well, caveat emptor.”

“Shut up,” Doyle said tightly, his hands white-knuckled where they were tied together in the small of his back.

A slap hit his butt and Bodie said amicably, “Now, now. Rude isn’t ‘ealthy, mate. Anyway, I’m not askin’. I’m not so lily-white meself.”

“I’ll bet,” Doyle grunted, then twisted his head to glare over his shoulder at his tormentor. “What’s the matter, can’t you get it up and get it over with?”

Bodie worked his fingers in and out slowly, his other hand stroking the side of his captive’s face. He should have looked ridiculous, half-naked with his shirt fully buttoned and his cock peeking out from under the shirt-tails where he squatted. Instead he looked powerful and vaguely menacing. Doyle tried to tighten up, but the hands were careful and the oil slippery.

“No, I can get it up. S’matter of fact I’m so ready I’d come the minute I was in you. And that won’t satisfy Ali - or you.”

Doyle’s face whitened under Bodie’s thoughtful stare. “That’s not the point, is it?” he asked toughly.

“Told you, I don’t get me jollies hurting people,” Bodie said shortly. His hand dropped from the other’s face and dug between Doyle’s stomach and the rug, helped by the man’s flinch and indrawn breath. “Not the best way of doin’ it,” Bodie said. “Can you kneel?”

“Like a bloody dog?” Doyle’s eyes blazed up at him, anger swallowing everything else.

“Would you prefer missionary fashion?” Nothing fazed Bodie. He sighed and tugged with his fingers still in Doyle’s asshole, making Doyle gasp.

“All right!”

The curly-haired man raised his butt infinitesimally, and Bodie, taking advantage of his momentum, brought him up onto his haunches. Before Doyle could move, Bodie had positioned himself, caught the hips between his hands and entered.

“God!” he gasped. “Tight, mate, damn tight. Maybe I was wrong.”

Doyle’s strangled croak was barely audible. “Can’t talk. Finish it.”

“Hurts? Sorry.” Bodie’s apology was perfunctory. The mercenary wanted nothing so much as to thrust, increase the sensations that flooded him, hot and incredibly good. Instead his hands went around to Doyle’s genitals. Oily and warm, one rubbed tenderly at the round sacs under his catamite’s prick, as the other made a circle and began milking Doyle.

The policeman gasped, jerked back and further impaled himself, quivering as he felt Bodie’s reaction.

“Nice,” Bodie purred in his ear. “Very nice. Thought of takin’ it up professionally?”

“I promise,” Doyle gritted between his teeth, helplessly feeling fire flush his veins and his prick rise, “that I am going to pay you back for this. I swear it.”

A soft chuckle vibrated through Bodie and then through him. “It’s been a while since anybody was hard enough to do me, mate. You’re a little on the small side for it, aren’t you?” He began a slow thrust, waiting for Doyle to counter his move before continuing.

It was long and slow, Bodie’s control like iron. Doyle was the one who finally lost the frantic contest, his face thrown back, lip bitten through, eyes closed with raging desire. He came, the hot liquid spurting through Bodie’s hands, and the blue-eyed man smiled with triumph and he let himself go, his arms tightening around Doyle at the moment of climax. He collapsed over Doyle’s shaking body, rolling to one side seconds later.

His eyes flew open and he got to his feet, the cold man his men knew uppermost again. Doyle stared up at him and hated him. How could he look like that when Doyle was jelly inside, a mass of confused anger, fear, despair and release, each emotion clamouring for supremacy?

“I want water for washing. And cloths,” Bodie said to Ali, stretching as he watched the Arab with careful attention.

Ali was disgusted. “Very well,” he said sullenly. “But you are too soft. You let him enjoy it. That is not what I wanted.”

“I made him enjoy it,” Bodie corrected him. “You’re not very subtle, are you? And I want some clothes for him. Desert clothes. We have a ways to travel today.”

Ali was frowning as he left, trying to work out

Bodie’s meaning. When he returned he handed the basin and rags to Bodie. “You think it is worse for him, to enjoy it? You English _are_ mad!” He shrugged, dragging open a chest in a far corner and bringing out clothes. “But I will have my revenge yet. When you are tired of him you will sell him back to me?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Bodie switched to English. “Front first, then the back. Come on, roll over, we don’t have all day.” He poured some whisky in the water, then used it to cleanse both of them. Helping Doyle to his feet he cut the wrist bindings before aiding him with the clothes Ali had provided.

Ali gave him a startled glare.

“Tight as hell, were they? Cuts off the circulation. They’ll hurt like blazes when the blood starts back in,” Bodie predicted dispassionately. Once he’d pulled the loose shirt and desert robe onto Doyle, he tied his hands again, this time in front of him and slackly.

“You can get out of that fairly easily.” Bodie examined his work critically. “It won’t do you a damn bit of good if you do.”

“Thanks for tellin’ me. I never would ‘ave guessed,” Doyle said sarcastically.

“Let’s ‘ope you’re not too sore to ride.” Bodie ignored him, but the blue eyes had a hidden vein of humour in them. “All right.” He dressed himself and broke open his belt to count Ali out his money, then picked up his rifle. “Time to meet my men, mate.”

“How many of them get me after you?” Doyle asked him, nostrils flared.

“Don’t even think that.” Bodie surprised him by taking his chin and staring down at him, a cruel twist to his mouth. “You’re _mine_ now. Anybody touches you, I’ll kill ‘em.”

Doyle swallowed, mesmerised by those chilling blue eyes. “Maybe I’ll find someone I fancy better.” He managed a brief spurt of defiance.

“Too bad.” Bodie shrugged. “Anyway, not too bloody likely.” He let go of Doyle and they exited the tent.

* * * * *

Crossing the desert was hard on Doyle. Unused to the heat and the horses, he was in almost constant agony. He survived by hating Bodie, letting the madness boil up in him and spur his body on to incredible efforts. But after the first week that palled. Bodie was too pragmatic to hate. The ultimate rational man, Doyle thought once, watching him as he pitched camp and oversaw the care of the slaves. He was never deliberately cruel or evil, and he always had a reason behind everything he did.

Except for his treatment of Doyle.

Doyle tried to hate him for that, and couldn’t. The first night when Bodie’d bedded down with him under a half-tent, apart from the others, the London policeman had tried to fight. That only brought home to him how weakened he actually was, half-starved as well as badly beaten.

Bodie’d almost laughed. He had kind of half-chuckled, as if Doyle’s actions were an amusing form of play. “Save your strength, ginger. I’m not going to plow your field tonight.”

“Yeah?” Doyle, his arms pinned, was drawn up to Bodie’s lean frame. “Why should I take your word for it?”

“Why not? What ‘ave I got to gain by lying?” Bodie asked practically. “Besides, you’ve got too many clothes on. When I want you, I’ll take ‘em off.” He tightened his arms and yawned. “Bit skinny, aren’t you?”

“Can’t all be as fat as hogs,” Doyle riposted slanderously. “Why, you like ‘em with more meat?”

“I’m used to a bit more up here,” Bodie’s arm lifted, his hands idly stroking Doyle’s chest. “And a cleaner hole. Frankly, if I had me choice, you wouldn’t be it. So relax, copperknob, and get some sleep.”

Doyle, the tension and long ride catching up with him, was almost asleep already. But he forced his eyelids up and asked with difficulty, “Bodie?”

“Um?”

“Why are you doing this? Takin’ me off that Arab, lettin’ me stay untied?”

“Told you why.” Bodie sounded as uncomfortable as Doyle felt. “I wanted somethin’ private and you’ve got no place to run to.”

“That’s not it.” Doyle spotted the lie with a copper’s ease. “ _Why?_ ” he demanded, voice harder.

Bodie tensed at the tone, then relaxed. “If you don’t like those reasons, I ‘aven’t got any for you. Except, maybe,” his voice sounded indulgent, “when you tried to kill me usin’ only your eyes, ginger, mad as fire ... you reminded me of a cat I used to ‘ave. Ginger as you are, she was, with eyes just your colour, too. Independent cuss, would never come for anythin’, and claws like razors, I swear. I still got a few scratch marks on me from ‘er.” The chuckle in his ear blew his curls and tickled him.

Doyle waited. “What happened to her?”

He thought Bodie wasn’t going to reply. Finally the mercenary said flatly, “She died.”

He yanked the covers up and said, “That’s enough talk. Go to sleep.”

And, mercifully, Doyle did.

* * * * *

Doyle grimaced as he sipped the water from the canteen. It was stale, flat and unprofitable to drink. But it was water. He began to cap it.

“’Ere, mate, I’ll have some.” Bodie squatted down by him, his tall frame settling itself between Doyle and the strong sun. Doyle, squinting up at him, realised that Bodie didn’t even notice, the reaction automatic to him. He handed the canteen over, wishing he understood the big man.

“I wonder what the hell you are?” he said out loud.

“Sun’s gone to your ‘ead. Keep covered up,” Bodie ordered without thinking. Then he blinked and looked at Doyle. “You o.k.?”

“Yeah. I’m thinking.” He rested speculative green eyes on his putative master and smiled. Bodie shifted uneasily under the stare, oddly uncomfortable.

“Too much thinkin’ can kill you,” he said. “Don’t do it.”

“Thank you, Dr. Bodie.” Doyle, tired of trying to fit the pieces of the dark man together, stared at the sand and dirt instead.

“Homesick?” Bodie asked quietly, watching Doyle’s slumped shoulders. “Got a family back there?”

“None of -“ Doyle caught himself. “What’s it matter? Won’t see them again, will I?” He kept his eyes down and Bodie chuckled.

“Tryin’ to throw me off the scent, eh? You’re bound and determined to kill yourself by runnin’ first real chance you get. Crafty little sod, you are. And stupid.”

Doyle forced his eyes to stay on the dirt, concentrating on picking out the tiny black ants from the gritty particles their same colour.

“Ah, don’t do it, ginger.” Bodie rested one hand on the seated man’s shoulder and leaned forward. “Look, it’s been two weeks. I haven’t touched you yet, ‘ave I?”

“No,” Doyle admitted, this time meeting Bodie’s eyes. That was another piece of the puzzle that didn’t fit.

“Right. Told you I preferred girls. So just set back and wait, copper,” Bodie went on cheerfully. “I’ll even help you get ‘ome when the time comes,” he promised.

“What, and lose your money?” Doyle’s sarcasm surprised both of them. Bodie’d never lied to him yet. “Why did you buy me?” he asked slowly, brows knitting. “And don’t give me that daft bit about the cat again!”

The back of Bodie’s neck might have been a trifle redder, or it might have been the sun. “You’re English, aren’t you? Didn’t want to see a fellow -“

Doyle deliberately caught his eye, staring him down. “You’d see your grandmother sold,” he said insultingly, and Bodie pursed his mouth in an offended manner.

“’Course I would, never liked the old bag.”

“So why?” Doyle pressed.

Bodie looked vaguely perplexed. “Dunno. You do remind me of Ginger, y’know.” He smiled, mind abstracted. “And I didn’t like Ali’s ‘ands on you,” he remembered with surprise. “That’s odd.” He shrugged, then stood up and leered down at Doyle. “Just take advantage of me good nature while you can, green eyes. Might need you before too long. I’m a very passionate man, not used to doin’ without.” He winked to share the joke and went off to get the camels on their feet, the rest-stop over.

Doyle stared at the canteen still in his hand and remembered Bodie swigging from it, without even wiping the rim where Doyle had drunk. Casually he lifted the metal canister to his lips and took another sip before he screwed the cap back on and put it away.

It tasted of Bodie. Perhaps it had tasted of Doyle to the blue-eyed man.

He took a deep breath, uncomfortable with his thoughts, and stood, arranging his robes with care. He wasn’t used to going so long without sexual relief himself.

* * * * *

That night when Bodie came to their shared blankets, Doyle said, “Did you mean it about helping me get back?”

Bodie, tired and restless, grunted and cupped Doyle closer, snuggling up spoon-fashion. It saved trouble if his men thought Doyle fully taken up. “Yeah, I meant it. I’m almost finished with me job, we can leave pretty quick. Once we get to the coast I can ‘ave you on a ship. Be a month or two, yet. You worried about your girl waitin’ for you?” He yawned. “You’ll get another. They probably fall over themselves waitin’ in line for you.”

“Ta very much. No. No girl,” Doyle said. With the actual prospect of returning to England in front of him, he let some of the pain he’d been carrying deep inside through, and remembered.

“S’all right,” Bodie said, feeling the slight body in his arms start to shake. He mistook the cause. “Plenty of fish in the sea, you’ll find one -“

“S’not that. My partner,” Doyle said, his throat thick. “When they took me, he was with me. They got him.”

“Ali didn’t say anything about -“

“They killed him,” Doyle said, and turned into Bodie’s arms, pressing his face into the dirty khaki shirt.

“Jesus.” Bodie tightened his grip. He didn’t like to see Doyle hurt, it made him angry. Angry with the world, angry with himself for letting it happen. But never angry with the man in his arms, he realised. “Nothin’ you could ‘ave done, copperknob.” He knew that without knowing any of the circumstances. His shirt was getting damp, he noticed, and the thought of Doyle crying terrified him. “Don’t. Don’t.”

After a while, Doyle lifted his head, his eyes puffy in the soft moonlight. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to bawl like a baby. I don’t often give way like that.”

“Everybody does,” Bodie murmured, wanting to comfort him so badly he ached with it. “When Ginger caught it, I cried buckets -“ He stopped. He’d never said anything to anyone about Ginger. Ever. And here he was spilling his guts out to Doyle ...

The lean man slid his arms around Bodie, comfortable and warm. “Everybody does,” he echoed the dark man soothingly.

“Not the same.” Bodie felt the beginnings of arousal. Doyle was hard and smooth under his hands, his skin like textured silk. He stroked the back of the red-head’s neck and hoped that Doyle hadn’t noticed his preoccupation. Although he hadn’t actually promised him absolute chastity, he seemed to recall.

“No, it’s not.” Doyle gave a choked laugh. “Remember you said I was no virgin? Well, I was, that way. But me partner and me ... there was nothin’ else to do sometimes. When you need it, you’ve got to ‘ave it _now_ , don’cher?”

“Uh huh.” Bodie was afraid he knew that feeling, and it was becoming urgent.

“How much for passage to England?”

The change of subject threw him. “I dunno. Fifty, a hundred pounds. Why?”

“If you add that to clothes and me outfit, and your initial outlay of eighty gold pieces,” Doyle murmured, “you’ve got a hell of an investment. Time you got somethin’ for it.”

Bodie inhaled sharply, feeling Doyle’s hand slip down. “And don’t forget me show of expertise,” he said, trying to keep it light. “That costs extra, y’know. I don’t often display me manly charms - don’t!”

His arms tightened, crushing Doyle to him. But the wiry, muscled torso didn’t give; instead Doyle levered himself up, wriggling to look Bodie in the eye.

“Why not?”

Bodie swallowed. “I don’t like to buy it, either.” He meant to say it toughly, but it came out more of a plea, and he shut his mouth.

“Is that all?” Doyle’s chipped tooth flashed in the starlight. “It’s not gratitude or to pay you back, Bodie.” He chuckled. “Not just lustin’ after your fair young flesh, either. I dunno. But I want you, and you,” his hips pushed at Bodie’s, “want me. So listen, you bastard,” his voice deepened to a menacing growl, “I may not be cheap, mate, but I’m choosy. And I’ve never been turned down before. Want to crush me tender ego?”

“Tender?” Bodie deliberately slid his hand down the muscled chest and flat, taut stomach. “It’s hard as a rock.”

“About like yours,” Doyle agreed, his own hands busy. “You’ve got an unruly id, cuddles.”

“I’ll ‘cuddles’ you,” Bodie said dangerously, and his mouth swooped to silence Doyle’s riposte.

* * * * *

The next few days flew by, the nights going as fast if not faster. Bodie throve on it, his iron frame fining down to steel. Doyle, still recovering from his ill-treatment and the unaccustomed activity, showed his lack of sleep in the lazy droop of his eyelids and his boneless, relaxed naps whenever they stopped to break the journey. Bodie looked after him better than he did his horse, and his men took note of his new arrangement of priorities, stepping carefully when they showed Doyle an easier way of adjusting his stirrups or tried to teach him a word or two of Arabic. Even the accidental touching stopped.

They both had excellent appetites, Doyle managing to gain weight while Bodie dropped a few pounds. He made a joke about it one day while they were alone, sitting together.

“You’re takin’ it out of me, mate. Me mum always warned me about these older men.”

“Yeah? I’ll ‘ave to feed you more at night,” Doyle said evilly, and watched as Bodie lost his smug look for a second.

Doyle squinted down the rifle barrel he was cleaning and reached for the rod and patches again, then lifted his head to stare at Bodie. “Doesn’t feel right, y’know.”

“Oh?” Bodie’s blue eyes grew serious. “You don’t want it?”

“Not that, you twit.” Doyle dismissed ‘that’ with a wave of his hand. He kept his eyes steadily on his lover. “You don’t feel right. Copper’s instincts. They never fail.”

“Didn’t tell you I was honest, ginger,” Bodie couldn’t break the eye contact.

“You’re a damn poor liar, worse’n me,” Doyle said dispassionately. “And if you’re a mercenary slaver, I’m a pimp’s stock in trade.”

“Only the highest class,” Bodie agreed, but his smile had no amusement in it. “You talk too much, sweet’eart. Belt up.”

Doyle watched his eyes flick nervously to either side and saw Bodie casually make sure his revolver was within reach.

“Wishful thinkin’, chump.” Bodie got up. “Think I’ll take a turn around the camp. Finish my rifle, will you? I don’t like not ‘avin’ it ready for trouble.”

Doyle nodded and watched him out of sight with narrowed eyes. “A damn poor liar,” he said thoughtfully.

* * * * *

Two days further on Doyle felt the column come to a shuddering halt before the scheduled rest stop. Curious, he squinted his veiled green eyes towards the head of the caravan and barely made out Bodie’s tall form, voluminous in the robes necessary for the climate, dismounting to speak with someone on foot.

He blinked and wiped the sweat away, cursing his eyes, which were absurdly sensitive to the sun and had to be shielded constantly. Otherwise, he’d be half-blinded. Slowly he picked his way up the column to stop beside Bodie’s headman, Sulieman ben Hazar. Bodie was a couple hundred feet ahead and to one side, isolated from his men, talking to a stranger in neutral grey-brown robes and headdress.

“What’s up?” he asked in his clumsy Arabic, wondering if he would understand an answer if he got one.

Sulieman briefly hooded his eyes in the Englishman’s direction, before he trained them back on Bodie, the rifle in his hands carefully held so that it was capable of being used almost instantly.

“A man who needs,” the Arab said, his inflection possibly sarcastic.

“Oh? What?” Doyle slitted his eyes, but could make out no more details. He felt almost grateful to Sulieman, who kept his answers short and comprehensible.

Sulieman shrugged. “A horse? Guns? A woman? Water? Who knows?” His eyes creased behind the cloth that shielded his face. “All things are with Allah.”

“Allah is good,” Doyle responded automatically as Bodie had drilled into him, and Sulieman nodded slightly in approval. At least the Englishman had manners.

At that moment Bodie shook his head, took off his canteen from his saddle, gave it to the stranger, mounted and cantered back. “More ‘em out,” he ordered Sulieman tightly, and the Arab bowed his head.

“Raiders?” he asked softly while his hands signalled the men.

“I dunno. But close ‘em up. It won’t hurt.” Bodie flicked his eyes to Doyle. “Stay close to me,” he ordered tersely. “Can you use a gun?”

“I can use a rifle. I’m one of the best with a handgun,” Doyle replied, with no use for modesty at the moment.

“Oh?” Bodie stared at him, then reached in his burnoose and brought out a large-caliber revolver. A box of ammunition followed. “Here.”

Doyle took it, eyebrows slightly raised. “No respecters of property, eh?” he tchhed at the empty horizon. “Strange how you find ‘em everywhere.”

“Nah, mate.” Bodie’s hard blue eyes almost smiled. “Only where there’s people. Get back to where you were on the column, if you can use that gun. Zeppe and Mani can cover you there.”

“All right. Where will you be?” Doyle’s brows knit as he turned the horse to obey, irritated at Bodie’s assignment of him to a protected area, even if he’d softened it by giving him the weapon.

“Don’t worry about me, ginger,” Bodie said easily. “You worry about gettin’ home.”

“If you die, ‘ow much chance ‘ave I got?” Doyle retorted briskly. “Your men will sell me with the others. You think about that when you’re takin’ chances.”

At that, Bodie’s blue eyes turned to flint. “You’d be better dead, copperknob. Use that knife you took the second night out if you can’t use the gun.” Bleakly he turned and began speaking to Sulieman in Arabic.

Doyle, regretting his hasty tongue, fell back to his original place on the column and waited. They’d talk that night.

* * * * *

There was no attack that night or the next, but no time for talking, either. Tempers flared as tension swung from one end of the scale to the other, and Doyle saw Bodie break up fights between his men a couple of times. Brutally he punished both sides, uncaring of how it started or whose fault it was. The dark man prowled the camp in the night hours, checking posts constantly, coming back to their blankets to snatch an hour’s restless sleep, then up again. Sulieman and he had several enigmatic conversations, one with Doyle present, but his level of Arabic wasn’t up to it, although he gathered that Sulieman wasn’t happy about whatever Bodie wanted.

The third day after their encounter with the stranger, Bodie told him they were leaving.

“What?” Doyle, rolling up the blankets, stared at his lover.

“We’re goin’ on a side trip,” Bodie said, his face like stone. “Pack everythin’ up, and it better not be much. We’re travellin’ light.”

“’Aven’t got much, ‘ave I?” Doyle retorted sarcastically, his mind trying to put things together. “That’ll be easy. What’s on, then?”

“Just a little look-see,” Bodie said, his back already turned. “We’ll join up again before the Riff.”

“A damn poor liar,” Doyle muttered, and Bodie cast one dark, warning glare over his shoulder at him.

Sulieman argued with Bodie again before they left, then formally bowed as Bodie apparently refused to change his mind. Bodie bowed back and Doyle copied him awkwardly.

The morning was well advanced before Doyle realised they’d been travelling in a straight line. Bodie was pushing the pace, too. They stopped for a break two hours before noon, Bodie’s eyes looking for a good place to hole up for the hottest part of the day.

“Why so fast?” Doyle asked quietly. “Is someone after us?”

“Why should anybody be after us, ginger?” Bodie asked sarkily, passing his canteen to Doyle.

“Dunno. You ‘aven’t got gold in those saddlebags, too light. A lot of ammo, though.”

Bodie cast him a speaking glance, then mounted. “Come on, you can dream later.”

Doyle followed, wondering how long it would be before Bodie confided in him. If he ever did.

After four days the horses were beginning to fade, and Bodie slowed his rate. By the end of that day he was staring at the small range of hills to their north and a smile cracked his sombre expression.

“See those, ginger?” he asked, sinking down by Doyle’s side to gesture at the peaks.

“Yeah,” Doyle said cautiously. Bodie’s temper had been uncertain the last few days, the only constant his seemingly endless ability to make love. The more tense he got, the more often he took Doyle, using him with a passion the London policeman had never known. It was frightening, even if he did understand it was probably the nerves and desperation.

Probably.

Though once or twice he’d thought Bodie might, in his own way, be getting fond of him.

“Once past those and we’re in Brija. It’s a small port, but we can take ship there. You’ll be on your way back in two, three days,” Bodie said, and Doyle jerked his head up away from the fire and really looked at Bodie.

The smile wasn’t real. The steel behind it was.

“You’ll just put me on board, pay me passage and let me go?” Doyle asked softly, wary as a cat.

“It’s what I promised,” Bodie said, eyes like star-sapphires, opaque blue with white streaks. Doyle swallowed. “But we’ve still got two days, sunshine.” Bodie stood up and stripped, then hesitated as he saw Doyle was still sitting. “I’ll wash a bit,” he said, mouth twisting, and went towards the pool of water they were camped near.

Doyle stared into the fire. What the hell was happening to him, he wondered, feeling as desperate as the glimpse he’d had of Bodie’s eyes. He wanted Bodie as much as Bodie wanted him.

Maybe more.

That thought wasn’t comfortable at all, but Doyle had never shirked facing facts. He’d been fascinated by Bodie since he’d met him, the sex blinding him to how much he was becoming emotionally dependent on the man. He relied on him now to temper his volatile mood swings, provide a pragmatic, common-sense approach to the problems they encountered. As Bodie, he thought, had begun to rely on him for a more optimistic view of life, or a sharp spur of humour to puncture his complacency when he needed it.

There was no profit in his thoughts. Nothing helped resolve the basic problem, which was that they were on two diverging courses, even if they might want to continue together.

Doyle shrugged and followed Bodie out to the waterhole. Being clean was a novelty he might as well try at least once this month.

Bodie was a shadow, stripping his clothes off and folding them neatly at the side of the water. He bent and Doyle caught his breath at the light reflecting off the milk-white ass. At that moment he wanted to fuck Bodie, wanted it with everything that was in him, fire blazing up his entrails from his aching groin. He didn’t care why, he didn’t give a damn what the hell he was or had become.

He needed him.

Stalking the unaware man on cat-feet, Doyle whispered his way over the sand and rock. His heightened senses recorded everything; Bodie’s solid torso, muscles rippling under the smooth skin, the water’s stillness under the stars, the subtle slithering just between the rocks at Bodie’s feet -

His knife was out before he realised what he’d seen. But he wasn’t fast enough to get there before Bodie was bitten.

The soft scrape of scales over stone alerted Bodie instantly to his danger and he swung around, but not in time. The teeth sank in, the poison burning up his veins. His heart pounding, Bodie reached down to grab the head - the flash of Ray’s knife forestalled him, severing the spine as the snake released its victim.

“God Almighty,” Bodie breathed, his mind denying his death even as it presented him with the inevitable series of events that would follow, like dominoes. The venom coursing through his veins, fever, chills, the slow, inexorable death.

He was knocked off his feet the next second.

“Stay down, you stupid nit!” Doyle shouted at him, and the dagger’s edge flashed again. Bodie flinched away, wondering if Doyle thought killing him would be a mercy. He wouldn’t blame him, it would be. He’d seen men die of snake-bite.

The blade hit his leg instead of his heart, cross-hatching the punctures as it bit deeply into his flesh. The next instant Doyle was at the wound, sucking till Bodie dizzily thought he was draining him of blood entirely, then spitting and stooping to suck again.

“Won’t help, ginger,” Bodie gasped, finally grasping what Doyle hoped to accomplish. “S’fatal.”

“Shut up and stay flat,” Doyle told him between inhalations.

“Stupid,” Bodie said, then vertigo took over and he passed out.

When he came to he was at the campsite, flat on his back. Chills shook him and he saw with vague surprise that he had all the blankets piled on top of him.

“Ginger,” he murmured as he shivered with the cold.

“Good, you’re awake. Here, drink this.” He was lifted to a low slant and warm fingers pressed a cup to his lips.

“Tastes good,” Bodie whispered, and winced as he found his back muscles were painful. “You dragged me back?” he guessed. “Why? I’m dead, copper.”

“Not yet,” Doyle told him fiercely. “And you’re not going to be.”

“No? Sorry, I’ve seen more than you.” Bodie felt the tiniest bit smug about his vaster experience, but the nausea that hit him, cramping his stomach, ruined his confidence. When the wave passed, he licked his lips. “Listen, ginger. Take the horses and everything and get to Brija. Paper - there’s paper here. I can make you a map, and there’s a man there who owes me. Don’t let him know I’m dead, I’ll give you a note. He’ll help get you back,”

“Shut up. You’ll get me back yourself.” Doyle tried to get more of the hot drink down his patient’s throat.

Bodie shook his head as the fever rose in him and he began to feel a flush of heat. “Damn you,” his hand scrabbled for paper and pen. “Do as I say, slave!”

“Slave! You son-of-a-“ Doyle caught himself and the green eyes loomed over Bodie’s failing sight. “Gettin’ me mad won’t make me leave, Bodie.” Teeth flashed, inches from the red-grey mist that was rapidly engulfing the mercenary. “Don’t you remember me promise? You can’t die and you can’t get rid of me - not ‘till we’re even. And, you simple sod, I’m not done with you yet.”

The fever took him then.

* * * * *

Doyle wiped the sweat oozing down the forehead away and wearily wondered what the hell he could do. He was keeping Bodie warm, covered up and pouring hot tea down his throat with asprin from the first-aid kit, but there was no anti-venom serum, nothing else that could help. He cursed, hating the fact that he was helpless to do more, and got up to go for more water.

The delirium lasted three days, three days of hell for Doyle as he sponged the hard-muscled torso down, trying to lower the temperature when the fever peaked, covering him with his own warm body and all the blankets when the chills hit Bodie.

It wasn’t pleasant. It was more intimate than he’d ever been with anyone, wiping the waste away, hearing things he was sure Bodie would rather have killed himself than ever reveal to any other living soul ... _that_ hit Doyle the hardest.

He remembered all the nightmares vividly, but one in particular gave him a bruised face and black eye to prove that it had happened. It came on the second night, Bodie’s worst one ...

“Ginger,” Bodie mumbled.

“’m here.” Doyle, exhausted, couldn’t even protest at the nickname.

“Ginger,” Bodie said again, more strongly, and pushed at Doyle. “Where is that cat? Can’t trust ‘er a minute ... C’mon, sweetheart, you can sleep with me, who cares about the blanket? Mother has all those bloody dogs in her room ... Can’t think why she keeps ‘em, Father hates dogs ... hates cats, too, so you watch out, love ... Come on, cuddle up ... What is it? Father?”

The uneasy wriggle Bodie gave disturbed Doyle.

“Sir? I know, but ... she’s only a cat, Father. Sir, don’t handle her like that, she doesn’t like it - Ginger!” The sharp cry was cut off.

Bodie sat bolt upright, his eyes staring wide, and he shrieked in a high, child-like voice, “Father! She didn’t mean to scratch, she - Father! Ginger!” He scrabbled up, throwing Doyle off with unconscious ease, his mind and body focussed on a long-ago happening.

“Ginger!” Bodie wailed, casting himself forward and cradling something unseen in his arms. “Father, how could you? You didn’t need to hurt her, you’re a bastard, a cruel, vicious -“

The snarling, bewildered, tear-stained face of the child changed to a frightened, cowering figure. Bodie raised his arm, fending off imaginary blows, his body still curled protectively about his cat.

“No, not the belt! Please,” he screamed. “No, no, no!”

Doyle couldn’t stand it. He grabbed Bodie and the man fought him awkwardly, flailing hands catching him in untrained blows, power without aim. Abruptly the heavier man collapsed.

“Don’t hurt me.” Bodie tried to crawl away on his stomach, every muscle tense. When Doyle landed on his back, trying to hold him still, Bodie froze.

“Don’t, Father, it hurts. Please don’t.” He cringed away, sobbing wildly as he locked his legs together, his hands covering his bottom in a futile gesture. “Please don’t hurt me,” he begged blindly, and Doyle, who thought he’d seen everything in the sinks of London and been hardened to any black deed men could commit, went cold as a sleety Hampstead night.

His hand trembled as he got to his knees over Bodie. Accidentally he brushed the smooth white cheeks of the ass and Bodie twisted, screaming, “Don’t do it, please, it hurts! Father! Father!” The long torso grovelled away from Doyle, tried to dig through the dirt to safety.

The muscles of the mercenary’s buttocks were hard as oak, tightened to an unbearable tension, and Doyle, throat aching as if he was the screaming child before him, cursed brokenly, blindly reaching out and bringing the dark-haired man up to cradle him in his arms.

He crooned a song his mum had sung to him, nonsense syllables strung together to soothe a fretting child, unsettled after the disappearance of his father, and rocked Bodie as he’d been rocked long ago, before his mother had gone into hospital and the foster homes had inured him to never touching.

Gradually Bodie relaxed in his arms, a sleepy peace settling over the dirt-stained face. Snot and tears rubbed off on Doyle’s collar-bone as Bodie sighed and mumbled, “Ginger?”

“Shhh ... ‘s all right,” Doyle said, as rumbly-soft as he could. “’s’all right now, boy ...” He massaged the back of Bodie’s neck and thought of his mum again, for the first time in many years without pain. What had she used to call him? His name, yes, Ray. ‘My little Ray of sunshine ...’

“Easy now, sunshine,” he breathed into Bodie’s ear, the endearment somehow appropriate. “I’ve got you now ... no more nightmares, not ever ... let ‘em go and come to me ...”

“Ginger,” Bodie sighed, and fell asleep as suddenly as a child.

He held him all that night, waiting with dread for the fever to return, which it did with the dawn. But not quite as bad, he thought with hope rising in his breast. Not quite so bad as before. And the third day it broke, after another night of nightmares and delirium. But nothing was as bad as that second night, not even the nightmares about running away from school and Bodie’s first time out as a mercenary.

Bodie’s eyes were open, Doyle realised slowly. The lack of sleep and his bruised, aching body had made his reaction time worse than usual. The green eyes blinked and his hand paused where it stirred the coals of their fire.

“You awake?” he asked, almost indifferently.

“Yeah,” Bodie croaked harshly. “What are _you_ doin’ here?”

“I live here,” Doyle told him patiently.

“In ‘ell?” Bodie asked him confused. “I am dead, aren’t I?”

“I hope not. I’ve got a lot of time invested in you, mate.” Doyle tried to smile, but it hurt his face too much. “I told you I wouldn’t let you die, sunshine.”

“Oh.” Bodie’s eyes closed without understanding, and he was asleep again.

Doyle nodded, wisely telling himself Bodie had to recover his strength now. He yawned and looked at breakfast, which was not appetising for some reason. Instead, he thought dimly, he should check Bodie over.

He got up and knelt by Bodie’s side, put his ear to the solid chest, and collapsed himself.

* * * * *

“Today we go to Brija,” Bodie announced the third day after the fever broke. His flat blue eyes dared Doyle to contradict him, but the other’s gaze was steady in the pale light of dawn.

“All right,” Doyle agreed. His red-brown head bent over the campfire. “Can you sit a horse?”

“If I can’t you can tie me on.” Bodie looked across the plain to the south, his eyes searching.

“I ‘aven’t seen any signs we were followed,” Doyle said, head still bowed.

“Won’t be until Sulieman gets to the Riff,” Bodie said absently, his eyes still of the horizon. “We’ve still got time enough.”

“Why would the Rassouli follow a deserter across the desert?”

Bodie glanced at the copper sharply. “Maybe ‘e likes me blue eyes, mate. It’s my business, not yours.”

“Not unless he tacks me hide up next to yours,” Doyle agreed evenly.

Bodie’s mouth twitched. “Slaves aren’t responsible for their master’s whims, ginger. You’ll have a quick death.” The humour, black as it was, seemed to help restore Bodie’s strength. Nevertheless Doyle wouldn’t let him help pack up, telling Bodie with a glare to stay put as he got the animals ready to move out.

Finally Doyle had everything tied down. He turned to Bodie and put one arm over his shoulder. “Come on, let’s see how you do gettin’ up.”

“’m always up for you, sweet’eart,” Bodie muttered, sweat springing out at his hairline as he struggled to his feet. His gaze rested, fascinated, on Doyle as the older man flushed red, and not with exertion.

“Get your mind out of the gutter and help,” Doyle said harshly. In contrast, his hands were almost tender as he half-lifted the heavier man up to the saddle.

A wave of dizziness hit Bodie and he leaned over the horse’s neck. Doyle’s hand tightened on his shoulderblades.

“OK?”

Bodie tried to ignore the concern in the soft voice and found his eyes oddly damp. “I’m all right,” he snarled. “Get on your own horse, we’ve got to get started.”

Doyle didn’t seem offended. His hand rubbed a soothing circle on Bodie’s back as he slowly lifted the reins up to the dark-haired man’s hands.

“Right.”

He mounted and they started off. But this time Doyle didn’t ride behind Bodie, he rode beside him. And the mercenary could feel those penetrating green eyes on him all the way through the hills into Brija.

It was curiously reassuring.

* * * * *

The seaport was busy, bustling with Europeans and Arabs, crowded with many races and many different tribes. The dark robes Bodie and Doyle wore, with the veiled desert headdresses, were as inconspicuous as anything else. They secured lodgings at a less-than-salubrious spot and dumped their baggage.

“What now?” Doyle asked, tired and dusty.

“Now we sell the horses, get a bath and sleep.” Bodie sat down on the low hassock and stifled a groan of fatigue.

Doyle had to bite back a protest. He wouldn’t be able to do anything except be there for Bodie, not until they reached an English-speaking country, or one whose customs he was familiar with. “What can I do?”

“Sleep, ginger.” Bodie got up to go and found Doyle at his elbow. “What’s the matter, you think I’m going to sell you while I’m out?” he asked sarcastically, and could have kicked himself when the words were out.

“No,” Doyle told him, short and determined. “But you’re not going anywhere without me. You could have a relapse or something any time.”

“Ah. You’ve learned to look after yourself at little, ginger. Wasn’t all wasted, this time with me, was it?” Bodie regretted the gibe but couldn’t help it. Doyle was getting too close, and he was growing an odd dependence on the wiry, curly-haired man.

“No, it wasn’t wasted,” Doyle agreed with him, a gleam in those grass-green eyes.

“All right, then.” Bodie gave in and Doyle followed him out the door.

* * * * *

The horses sold and passage bought on a freighter heading north, they ate. Bodie found a bath-house after the meal, and they relaxed in the hot steam-room, almost the only customers.

Bodie collapsed with a groan on the third tier of planks, his muscles protesting his activity after his recent illness. Doyle sat down on the second row, the wooden boards hot under his tender buttocks. Bodie chuckled at the tentative rearrangement of limbs as Doyle tried to find a spot that wouldn’t burn him, and the red-brown head lifted to glare up at him.

“You must ‘ave an ‘ide like an elephant’s,” he said resentfully.

“It’s me easy conscience,” Bodie returned, a bland smile on his smug face.

“Oh? No conscience at all, that’s what you mean.” Doyle dug out the linen strips they’d been given to serve as towels and used them to pad the hard wood.

“Could be, ginger.” Bodie, the warmth seeping into him and combining with a full stomach to make him sleepy and comfortable, cast a lazy eye over his responsibility. “You look better than you did at Ali’s, mate. Maybe you’ve grown some.” He hoped for a blush and got one.

“You bastard,” Doyle began, then stopped. All he could remember now were the nights on the desert with Bodie’s past surfacing. He didn’t want to fight Bodie, he realised. He didn’t want to ever hurt Bodie, or cause him to feel pain again.

His skin cooled sharply as he thought that over.

“You dreamin’, ginger?” Bodie’s hand trailed over the side of his row, the fingers sifting through Doyle’s curls to rub at the scalp soothingly. “Or tired? It’ll be easier on the ship.”

“I’m not the one who’s been sick,” Doyle said automatically, still considering his response to Bodie and what it might mean.

Bodie rolled over, peering down at Doyle in the dim light. “I’m made of iron, mate, the snake-bite proves it. Born to be ‘anged, that’s me.”

“Yeah. Sure. Shut up.” Doyle watched the only other customers walk out the door and wondered vaguely how long he and Bodie should stay.

“Now, now.” The hand trailed down over his shoulder and Doyle came alive, body tensing under the delicate, probing nails. “You look _much_ better then when you were at Ali’s,” Bodie purred, his blue eyes were no longer sleepy. “Cleaner, for one thing.”

“That’s true.” Doyle had to clear his throat before the choked whisper could get out. His hand came up to still Bodie’s where it stroked. He could feel his cock respond to the words and touch, swelling in its nest of red-gold curls, rising over his taut belly to wait impatiently for completion. “And you owe me one,” he ground out, pulling at Bodie’s hand to bring himself up and face the blue-eyed man, his own eyes hot and blazing. He grasped the back of Bodie’s neck as the mercenary blinked and tried to draw back; Doyle leaned forward, taking his mouth with all the expertise he’d learned, all the aggression he’d locked in himself the past month and more.

Bodie, surprised, gave ground and found Doyle’s weight on top of him, pinning him. He felt his body respond involuntarily and grabbed for the edge of the board to balance. Doyle’s lithe, muscular torso squirmed over him, finding purchase, and Bodie choked off an involuntary laugh as the man on top raked his hands across his ribs and triggered ticklish responses.

Doyle’s knee dug between Bodie’s thighs and Bodie, struggling not to fall, parted them, letting Doyle wedge himself into a balance. “Easy, ginger,” he gasped. “Feelin’ our oats, are we? Damn!” He discovered he couldn’t roll and pin Doyle without falling, and a fiendish grin gleamed above him as the halo of curls came down, the tongue invading him hotly.

A bolt of lust ripped through the dark man, spurring him to let go his hold on the board and grasp Doyle’s shoulders, hugging him to him, his mouth open and devouring the man above him. Red fire flared through his veins and he heard his voice moan, thick with desire. He felt the nudge of Doyle’s sex pressing hard against his own and arched, trying to push up into some hot, dark opening where he could slake his burning thirst. His cock was trapped instead between flesh, the rough-slick, hot skin almost as good as what he yearned for. He gasped and thrust again, lifting his butt, and froze as Doyle’s cock slid under his, caressing the root as it glided down, probing for the sweat-damp, tight opening.

Doyle felt Bodie go rigid under his touch and with an effort that tied his balls in knots and made his body scream, stopped himself. He jerked to one side, forgetting where he was, and fell heavily.

Bodie, brought back to life from his frozen stillness, grabbed for Doyle and missed him. He sat bolt upright and swung his legs over the edge of the plank. “Ginger!”

Doyle’s flow of invective reassured him.

“Sorry, mate,” Bodie apologised. “What ‘appened? Did I throw you off?”

“You could say that, you effing sod,” Doyle spat at him, rubbing bruised posteriors.

Bodie stood over him and helped him up, chuckling. “Said I was sorry, didn’t I? I’m not used to that approach, copperknob.”

Doyle, leaning against Bodie, stiffened. “Yes,” he said in a flat voice. “Let’s get out of here.”

Bodie nudged him towards the door. “Right. You must be all warmed up by now.”

* * * * *

Back at their lodgings Bodie started taking off his shirt. “There’s something for you in that,” he said in a muffled voice.

Doyle looked at the basket with the purchases they’d made on their way through the market-place.

“Clothes, I hope.”

“Why’d you need those?” Bodie said, a gleam in his eyes as he unbuckled his belt.

Doyle gave him a disgusted stare as he started looking through the packages. “Thought you weren’t too keen on other people ‘aving a look at me bare arse.”

“Oh, I don’t mind ‘em lookin’. Shows me good taste.” Bodie started in on his boots. “It’s the touchin’ I’m not ‘avin’. Other people ‘avin’, I mean,” he added, strictly fair.

Doyle had found the purchases Bodie had meant by this time. His eyelids were half-closed, disguising his expression from Bodie’s amused observation.

“This is for me, eh?” ‘This’ was a wrapped soap with two vials of oil, one medium-, one heavy-grade. All were scented with an elusive, faintly musky tang that said, to Doyle’s flared nostrils, ‘sex’. The fragrance rose through the air and teased at the back of his throat.

“Right.” Bodie was starkers by now. His hand grasped Doyle’s shoulder as he came up behind him and nuzzled his neck. “Thought you’d like it, mate. I thought of you the minute I smelled it.”

“At least it’s not roses,” Doyle said, his face still unreadable. “I’m glad you got them, Bodie. I do need ‘em.” He set them down deliberately by the bed, turned the covers down and stripped to bare flesh quicker than Bodie, shrugging away the other’s helpful hands.

“All right.” Bodie dropped to sit on the bed, watching Doyle’s set face and direct, purposeful moves. When the lean man turned to face him, Bodie smiled, his cock stirring. “Nice.”

Doyle was already aroused.

“Yeah.” Unblinking, Doyle stared at him with shuttered green eyes as he uncorked the heavy oil. “Get in bed, Bodie. Face down.”

Bodie froze, his hand already reaching out. The lustful gleam faded from his blue eyes and they became wary. “What?”

“You ‘eard me.” Doyle was uncompromising, his hip jutting forward, prominently displaying his sex as he shifted his weight.

“Now, Ray,” Bodie began soothingly, but the minute change in the eyes warned him off. He stood and stared down at Doyle, blue eyes cold as Arctic skies.

Doyle didn’t flinched. Steady as a rock, he stared back as tension flared between them, almost violent in its intensity.

Gradually Bodie’s eyes thawed and the corner of his mouth twitched. Slowly, so that Doyle couldn’t mistake his intentions, his hand came up and the back of his fingers brushed Doyle’s cheek. “Just like Ginger,” he murmured. “Bloody cat ...”

Doyle’s breath came a little faster, and Bodie noted the symptom of arousal with malicious amusement that turned into a genuine chuckle.

“’aven’t been bottom-man in a long time, copper. You think you’re good enough to take me?” The long muscles in the chest flexed, the two thin, puckered scars of old bullet-wounds twisting with the rippling skin as his hands trailed down the curly-haired man’s torso.

Doyle kept his eyes on Bodie’s. “Dunno. I don’t want to, anyway. I’m not going to rape you, Bodie. You can do it or not, as you choose.”

Bodie, taken aback, blinked, his chin going up. “Wha-“ The mouth closed. After a minute Bodie said thoughtfully, “But you’re not goin’ to cooperate unless I lift me ass, is that it?”

“Both ways, Bodie.” Doyle wasn’t joking. His eyes kept their intense stare. “It’s got to be both ways. I’m not a pet. I’m not Ginger. And I’m not your slave.”

Bodie exhaled in a sharp grunt that might have been a laugh. “I know that, mate. Not furry enough for that.” His hand rubbed the thin curls that were sprinkled across Doyle’s chest, stroking the crested nipples with loving attention. He felt the stillness that followed his action and smiled, but the smile lost its smugness as his eyes lifted to Doyle’s again.

There was no change there.

“Never could guess what was in her mind, either,” Bodie pursed his lips. “Not unless it was food or sleep. Or a mouse. She was a good mouser. What if I just take you?” he asked, his eyes hooded.

“Bodie.” Doyle knew if he made a move, any move, in Bodie’s direction, he’d lose. “You’d have to hurt me. And you don’t like hurting people with sex. That’s what you told me. And I’m _not_ Ginger,” he said, temper flaring a notch.

“Be a damn sight easier if you were,” Bodie told him irritably. “I got used to her preferred sleepin’ position bein’ on top of me.” He took a deep breath. “You must be a ‘ell of a copper, mate. You’re good at hangin’ a man by his balls, and rememberin’ what ‘e’s said to be used as evidence against ‘im. All or nothin’, eh?” The eyes turned inward. Then Bodie shrugged, lifted the covers and climbed in bed, leaving Doyle, startled, still standing.

“Well?” Bodie demanded, back to him. “Get in. We’ve got to be on board early.” He turned his head to look at Doyle’s stunned face. “I ‘ope you don’t get your jollies ‘urtin’ either, ginger. Because I’ll take your balls off tomorrow if you do.”

“No,” Ray shook his head, and the fingers that picked up the oil trembled. “No. I don’t.”

“Good.” Bodie deliberately turned his back again. “You’ve got your work cut out for you. I don’t like it this way.”

Doyle paused, one knee on the bed. Secure in the knowledge that Bodie couldn’t see him, he let his eyes mirror his grateful tenderness. “You will, sunshine. I swear you will.” Tentatively he leaned forward and brushed his mouth over the scar on Bodie’s left shoulder-blade, his thumb pressing a long stroke down the vulnerable spine. The soft, caught-back moan made the curly-haired man smile, and his mouth browsed on.

Slow and easy, Doyle ignored his own needs to tend to Bodie’s. It was hard, harder than he’d realised it would be, but finally the rough-gentle strokes and hot, wet mouth with nipping teeth began to have their effect. He redoubled his efforts, concentrating on making Bodie forget everything except his own pleasure. And he succeeded.

The strong hands kneading his ass made Bodie moan. Unconsciously he lifted to make more contact and the hands slipped around to his cock. That made him press back harder, and the stiff prick that rubbed up and down his cleft began a slippery exploration further down.

It didn’t matter. Bodie was on fire, the oil’s fragrance rising to his nostrils and the odour of sweat and male sex rousing him beyond sense. He panted heavily, his prick thrusting urgently into the hands that cupped it, and as he pulled back for each new push the hot shaft behind him stayed with him, inching forward.

He twisted, wanting its stimulation, and snarled with frustration at the passive hands, the still prick. “Do it!” he hissed, impatient, and his hands tried to find his shaft.

Doyle wouldn’t let him release himself. He caught Bodie’s hands back. “Naughty, sunshine,” he gulped out, dizzy with need and a buzzing at the back of his eyes. “Here. Hold _here_.” He brought the strong hands to him and Bodie’s fingers sought and found Doyle’s ass. “God!” Doyle shoved/was pulled forward, full into Bodie.

“Yes,” the mercenary groaned, the shaft hitting exactly the right places now, and the fingers about his prick, slippery with oil, pumped him frantically.

Bodie came, erupting through the spread hands, his spurting seed coating the sheet in front of him, and he toppled forward.

Doyle followed him down, thrusting with all his strength, his arms now locked about Bodie’s groin, holding to him with implacable need. One more deep plunge and he exploded into the tight, warm receptacle provided for him, his life draining out of him as his seed came and came.

A long time later he rolled off Bodie’s back, one arm flung over his eyes.

“Dear God.”

Bodie’s breathing was easier than his. A white arm came around his chest and fumbled for his wrist. He let him have it. He would have given Bodie anything at that moment.

After a while his curiosity was aroused sufficiently to ask, “What are you doin’?”

“Takin’ your pulse, ginger.”

“Why?” He couldn’t believe it. “I’m not dead.”

“To see ‘ow soon you’ll be able to do it again,” Bodie told him, and was rewarded by an incredulous green stare.

* * * * *

Bodie was up before the crack of dawn, waking Doyle with a swat to his charmingly displayed derriere. “Up, mate,” he ordered cheerfully. “And not that ‘up’, either,” he added as Doyle rolled over. “The tide turns in an hour and we ‘ave to be there or the ship will sail without us.”

Doyle’s bleary eyes widened at Bodie’s attire - a Norwegian seaman’s jersey and tight stocking cap. It made quite a change from the mercenary’s khaki garb or the desert robes. He got up and found a matching set in approximately his own size laid out on a chair. “When did you sleep?” he asked, yawning, then shut his mouth and looked up in sudden concern. “Bodie, I ‘aven’t got any papers. What -“

“That’s what old Farouk was doin’ while we were at the bath.” Bodie fished out a creased, stained and convincingly tattered set of seaman’s credentials. “Even got a passport of convenience, you do. Otherwise we’d ‘ave to pay the captain more and come in the back door. Waste of good money when the souks ‘ave someone who’ll do it cheaper and easier.”

Doyle took them gingerly. “Can’t read ‘alf of it,” he muttered as he stared at the faded lettering.

“Just as well,” Bodie said, cutting him short. “Come on. And don’t forget anything, we’re not coming back.”

_We_ , Doyle mused as he followed Bodie down the narrow crooked streets to the harbour. It had a good sound to it, solid, like the first time a civilian had called him “constable”.

He hefted his bag and wondered why Bodie’d bothered purchasing seaman’s dufflebags to hide the leather saddlebags and gear. His ... his what? Not bloody master, that was for sure. His lover? Yes, that had a good sound to it, too. His lover was playing his cards close to his chest. Doyle busied himself trying to fit all of the pieces that he’d seen so far into a coherent whole, and found himself frustrated as they passed the last of the bazaar mendicants and saw open water ahead.

It wouldn’t come together. “Look,” the wiry man began, but was interrupted by a long, sibilant hiss.

“ _Hadji Bodie!_ ”

Doyle whirled as one with the taller man, and like a scene out of a nightmare saw Ali ben Yussef’s gold tooth gleam out of the shadows edging the alley.

“I thought it was you,” the Arab murmured, three huge men, his guards, fanning out to surround them. “I saw you yesterday in the souks, but you did not see me. And I wondered what the captain of the Rassouli’s men does here in Brija? I at least have business here, arranging for shipment of my delicate merchandise, but the Rassouli?”

“The Rassouli doesn’t like questions, or those who ask them,” Bodie replied, eyes hard.

“ _If_ you are on his business,” Ali agreed suavely. “And if not ... he has much to offer as a reward for faithful service.”

“Not to a seller of women,” Bodie taunted, his right arm hidden in the shadows. Doyle shifted left, the broad-bladed knife comforting where it dropped down his sleeve.

Ali chuckled. “Even so. I would not sell you, Hadji Bodie. You I might even let go. After all, the Rassouli is far from here, and he is capricious. Two days after sending me gold for your head he might decide he wanted you alive again, and blame me for your death. But the other one ... you swore to sell him back to me. Surely he is not that accomplished a catamite that you would forget your word?” His men stepped closer.

Bodie laughed and relaxed his muscles, unlocking them as he grinned at Ali. Doyle, in the shadows, felt his stomach knot.

“’im? Nah, ‘e’s all right, but nothin’ special. But you weren’t ‘ere, Ali,” Bodie confided, stepping nearer the pimp and keeping his voice low. “I figured I’d ‘ave to get the best price I could out of Stefano.”

“The Sicilian? He would not pay more -“ Ali, taken momentarily off-guard, never saw the knife go in.

The guards, seeing their master fold, leaped forward to kill Bodie. Doyle managed to down one before he reached the mercenary, but the heavy weight tore the knife from his grasp. He spun away and grabbed at one of the two remaining, his knee coming up as he tried to disarm him.

Bodie was having problems too. The knife had gone in, but Ali’s movement had made it catch against bone coming out, and the guard on top of him was skilled with his blade. He saw, out of the cornerr of his eye, Doyle pull one off as he circled the other. A swift move and Bodie’s arm cracked down with brutal force. The bone gave way, the knife clattered to the cobblestones, and Bodie made sure this time he wouldn’t lose it on a rib. He straightened from his opponent’s throat, the knife red in his hand, and saw Doyle go down.

Doyle held the knife away with both hands, taking brutal punishment as the Arab’s elbow hit him in the ribs. Sweat streamed down his face and torso and he grunted with the effort. If he could have spared the time to think he would have known that he was going to lose, but all his attention was concentrated on that hand and the blade. When the guard’s other fist hit his solar plexus he gasped and folded, and the knife came down.

He could feel it going in, not as a matter of real concern, he was too wrapped up in the pain washing over him from his groin, but the sliced flesh informed him of its existence, too, and the blood welling from the fresh cut was hot and wet on his skin.

When he came to he was on his feet, his arm draped over Bodie’s neck. “Just a little farther, mate, only another ‘undred feet or so. You can make it.”

He focussed on the wooden planks under their shoes and realised they were on the pier, unsteadily heading for the tramp freighter shabbily moored at one end.

He bit his lip as the pain shot through him, his dead weight sagging into Bodie as the cramp knotted his side where the knife had gone in. He couldn’t feel blood seeping from the wound at least, that was some comfort.

“Bodie,” he whispered, but it came out as a moan. “Bodie, you won’t make it with me. Don’t be a fool.”

“Shut up,” came the low threat. “And don’t worry. Just remember you’re drunk if we get stopped.”

“The captain will throw us off the minute -“ A coughing spasm hit him and he tried to double up, but hadn’t the strength to as Bodie kept half-dragging him towards the ship.

“Don’t you worry about the captain, ginger,” Bodie gritted out. “Let’s just say ‘e’s been paid, eh? ‘e won’t give us any trouble.”

“But -“ Whatever Doyle had been going to say was lost as he passed out again, and Bodie quickened his pace as best he could. It was, he reflected grimly as he contemplated the four dead Arabs, Doyle’s wounded state and the information he carried, going to be a hell of a report.

The fever hit Doyle the next day and stayed with him, to a greater or lesser degree, all through the ten-day trip. They stopped at six ports, on and off-loading freight, Bodie helping, then coming down to the cramped cubbyhole he shared with Doyle to see to the sick man’s needs. He slept there too, pressed close against him to wedge him in against the sickening roll and lurch of the tramp, and to be able to sense the slightest change in Doyle’s condition. By the time they reached the Thames, Doyle was shaky, but able to stand.

“We off-load tomorrow mornin’,” Bodie told him as he stripped off in the dim light provided for the room. “You and me will just walk out like we’ve got a couple days leave and disappear.”

“Right.” Doyle had had a season with the River Patrol, and he knew how easy it was. “And then?”

Bodie looked uncomfortable and undecided. “I dunno yet. I’ve put out a feeler or two.”

“You goin’ back to mercenary work?” Doyle sat up too fast and had to sink down again, his head spinning. “You stupid -“

“No, nothin’ like that.” Bodie hit the light switch and crawled in, crowding up against Doyle, deliberately not letting him have any space. “Somethin’ else. I’ll tell you later. You ever thought of leavin’ the police, Ray?”

“Only once,” Doyle cautiously admitted. “And that was for somethin’ like it.”

“Huh. Go to sleep.” Bodie yawned and was out like the light, leaving Doyle suspicious and with no kind feelings for his lover.

He slept lightly that night, waking at odd moments, like a cat in a strange place. He was afraid of the future and uncertain of what Bodie wanted of him, or for them. Or if Bodie would give him a few quid the next morning and say, “It’s been nice knowing you,” and walk away.

It was possible. No promises had been made. He thought back to the desert and his jaw pushed forward stubbornly. He’d made a promise or two in those restless, fevered nights. And Bodie was going to find out that it wasn’t that easy to get rid of Ray Doyle. He fell asleep still thinking about how to have it all, his career and Bodie in England ...

He never knew exactly what woke him, but he was all at once awake, every nerve alert as he felt Bodie’s stealthy movements as he dressed and crept out. The curly-haired man was up in a flash when the door shut silently behind the mercenary, and he paused only to climb into jeans and a dark sweater before he picked up his shoes and followed. Inwardly he cursed his shaking, sweating hands and the weakness of his legs, still affected by his illness though the wound was closed and healing.

Fortunately Bodie hadn’t gone far, only to the captain’s cabin. Doyle crouched outside the porthole, listening and looking in the pre-dawn darkness. The captain was on the bridge, going over the cargo manifest with Customs, so what was Bodie doing?

A light flared and Doyle blinked as he saw the back of a sandy-haired man’s head. He looked vaguely familiar. Cautiously he reached out and cracked the glass, listening with straining ears to the conversation.

“- not a bad job. That arms pipe-line was one of the worst we’ve ever run up against. You think the Rassouli will do what he promised?”

“Yeah. Did you get the other reports, the ones on ben Yussef’s trade, and Stefano?”

“Yes. We’ll have them closed off in another month, at least at this end.” The stranger paused, a sarcastic twinge entering his tone. “And then we come to your expenses, Bodie. A rather lavish sum expended on, um, buying _information_ \- or was it your bill at the local gin shop?”

“No, sir.” Bodie shifted uncomfortably. “It’s all there, I needed -“

“I can see that. Well, we’ll pass it, or most of it. But what we won’t pass is this, Bodie.” “This” was a piece of paper waved in the air. “Passage for _two_ to England?”

“Look, sir, I can explain that.” Bodie, the ultra-cool mercenary, was almost sweating, and Doyle blinked, half of him enjoying it while the other half rummaged frantically around in his mind trying to identify that voice, that stance. He _knew_ the man, he was sure of it.

“A DBS, eh? That’s why we have embassies and consulates, Bodie. CI5’s budget does not run to aiding the indigent.” A sharp shake of the head cut off the mercenary’s protest. “It’s disallowed. Now, we come to the next problem. I wish you hadn’t left the Rassouli, there was something I wanted you to look into. You’ll have to go back.”

CI5? George Cowley! Doyle’s mind spun as he remembered back months ago, before he’d been taken out of England. He’d been approached by a CI5 recruiter, been interviewed by Cowley briefly and been impressed by the man. He stared into the cabin. Bodie, in CI5? He abruptly started listening again.

“I can’t go back, sir. I, uh, had a run-in with ben Yussef. He’s dead. And I ‘ad to leave the Rassouli -“

“If ben Yussef’s dead he won’t be bothering you, will he? And the Rassouli will keep to his agreement with us.” Cowley hooked off his dark-rimmed glasses impatiently. “Damn it, man, I know it’s dangerous. But this is important. This man, we were considering him for CI5, and then he disappeared. Our only lead was ben Yussef, and you’ve killed him. That puts it squarely in your lap, 3.7.”

Bodie almost squirmed under the disapproving stare. “It was ‘im or me, sir.”

“Hmph.” Cowley scowled. “At any rate, we know he had Doyle’s partner killed and Doyle vanished at the same time. We assume ben Yussef had him kidnapped, but there’s nothing concrete, not a whisper. I want you to find out what happened to Doyle.”

Bodie mouth hung open unattractively. It was fortunate Cowley was staring at the papers in his hand. “Sir? Doyle? I -“

“That’s his name. Here’s his file, picture, a description. He shouldn’t be too hard to find, he’d stick out like a sore thumb in North Africa.”

Bodie found himself staring at Ray’s likeness in his blue constable’s uniform. “What about me leave?” he stalled, buying time while he tried to think. “I was due -“

“You can have a week after you get him back here. If you get him back,” Cowley said impatiently.

“That could take a long time,” Bodie said, suddenly enjoying himself, a crafty gleam concealed in his blue eyes. “Two weeks leave. And if I find him, what about his passage? Is CI5 goin’ to pay his way back?”

“Of course we will. I want him,” Cowley snapped, taken aback when Bodie choked and turned red. “What’s the devil’s wrong with you, man? I also want your evaluation of him. I was considering him for your partner, although God knows he’s probably already been through enough purgatory on earth.”

“Yes, sir,” Bodie wheezed, sidling towards the door, anxious now for Cowley to be gone. “I’ll get right on it. Passage paid and two week’s leave,” he said cunningly.

“One week. Yes, you do that.” Cowley picked up his briefcase and limped to the door. Ducking through to the deck, he barely glanced at the curly-haired elf dressed in soiled seamen’s clothes perched on top of a coil of rope and grinning at him.

He was twenty feet further on when his trained mind registered what - who - he’d seen, and recognised the man so briefly met months before. He spun around.

Bodie’s broad back covered the disappearing form of the wiry seaman. Apparently the agent was shoving him in panic-stricken haste down the nearest hatchway.

Cowley opened his mouth to bellow a harsh order, then shut it slowly, a reluctant gleam of admiration lighting the pale blue eyes. He seated his hat more firmly on his head in the fog and continued on to the gang-plank.

He’d had the wool pulled over his eyes, there, then. Bodie might be better than he’d thought ... or this man Doyle was a damned good influence on the lad. Bodie tended to be too straightforward for his own good - and the department’s. That was the English in him, no doubt.

Cowley was already plotting his revenge, or possibly their next job, by the time he climbed into the car waiting for him at the end of the pier.


	3. Heat-Trace - Chapter 1

# Heat Trace by Helen Raven

## Chapter 1

“OK. We got everything?”

Doyle nodded, abstracted. He’d lain awake most of the night, his brain churning with the problem of Bodie. He was desperate to ask if they were going to see each other again, but had not yet found the necessary courage - scared that the answer might be no, and possibly even more scared that the answer might be yes. But how long did he have before it was too late? The time it would take for them to walk down the gangplank, find a main road, and for Bodie to give him the taxi fare to his police station?

That gangplank, which had seemed like the more-difficult face of Everest when he had struggled up it, supported by Bodie, was now inconveniently short. They headed for the main road. Doyle felt sick. He opened his mouth -

“Ray, I expect you’re keen to get back to your station and let them know that you’re OK...” Doyle, a buzzing in his ears, thought he shook his head, and did not notice the uncertain note in Bodie’s voice. “... but do you mind if we have a talk first? There’s a decent caff down the street. I don’t know about you, but I could murder a cup of tea.”

“OK.” Doyle could not imagine anything good being announced with “Can we have a talk?” Was Bodie going to coach him in some story to explain how he’d got back from Africa completely without the help of a mercenary whose face was on file in every police station in the country?

* * * * *

The café was empty. Bodie ordered bacon sandwiches and tea for the two of them, and they took the table furthest from the counter. There was silence while they waited to be served.

Doyle prodded his sandwich, not convinced he would be able to keep it down if he tried to eat it. He closed his eyes briefly.

“What’s the matter?”

He opened his eyes and shook his head, trying to smile. “Just not hungry after all, I guess. Can you get landsickness?”

Bodie shrugged. “I can’t imagine feeling too ill to want a bacon sarnie.” He looked at his with a lustful expression. “I have been dreaming about these things while I’ve been away. Next time I’ll insist on a Bacon Deprivation Allowance when I’m sent to a Muslim country.” He crammed the sandwich into his blissful smile, washed it down with a mouthful of tea, and then looked pleadingly at Doyle’s rejected breakfast.

Doyle smiled, this time with genuine amusement, and shoved the plate over. When that plate had been vacuumed clean, Bodie pushed both plates out of the way, and cradled his mug of tea in both hands, suddenly serious.

 _Oh, shit_ , thought Doyle.

“Ray.” Very quietly. “Do you want to carry on? Us, I mean?”

Doyle gazed at him, mouth slightly open, then nodded slowly.

“Good.” Bodie reached out a hand to stroke lightly along the inside of Doyle’s wrist. So brief, even Doyle nearly missed it. “Then there are things we’ve got to sort out. You know we’re going to have to be very careful. _I’d_ lose my job. I don’t know about the force, but ...” He shook his head, face grim.

“I’d no idea mercenaries were so fussy.”

“They’re not. CI5 is though.”

“Aaaah.” _Of course._ Bodie was grinning. “You might have told me before, you bastard.”

Serious again. “Uhuh. Wouldn’t have been a good idea.” The grin returned. “Anyway, was fun watching a detective at work. Better than TV.”

“I’m not CID, I’m uniform. Would they really kick you out?”

“Like a shot.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Major Cowley never mentioned any vetting.”

“Well, it goes without - You’ve met the Cow?”

“He interviewed me back in January. For CI5.”

Bodie thumped the table with the flat of his hand in an uncontrollable reaction of sheer triumph. “Had to be. _Had_ to be. Hah! You’re joining straight away? This is going to be amazing. He’ll partner us. I know I can get him to partner us.”

Doyle was shaking his head.

The elation drained away. “You don’t want us to be partnered?”

“I’m not going to join. I’ve got a good job in the force. Best I’ve ever heard of. When Cowley called me ...” He shrugged. “... I thought, _Let’s hear what he’s got to say. Hear the sales pitch. Get a free lunch._ But I knew before I met him. And what he said just showed me I’d been right all along. I’m a born London beat copper. I don’t give a shit about politicians and diplomats and all that James Bond crap.” Seeing Bodie looking hurt as well as disappointed, he tried to make amends, “I know it’s all necessary, and I expect you do more good in the long run than I do, but ... it’s just not what I want to do with my life. OK?”

Bodie nodded once. “OK. Shame, though. Could have been fun.” He stared down at his tea, rolled the mug back and forth between his palms. Then he drained it in one long swallow. “Could have made things easier, too. Now we’ve got to sort some stuff out. I reckon the best thing is to let people know that we ... uh ... made friends in Africa and travelled back together. That way we can meet without people getting suspicious.”

Doyle felt suddenly chill. “I suppose so.”

“Right. So what we’ll do is this: I’ll take you into HQ, and introduce you to as many people as possible.” Pause. “Doctor, too. How you doing?” A frowning examination. Doyle waved a hand in dismissal, and Bodie continued. “I bet they’ve moved me so I’ll find out where, then I’ll take you to your station, help you explain where the hell you’ve been for the last four months, and then: ‘Get in touch, Ray, and we’ll go out for that drink sometime.’ After that ...”

“... we play it by ear.”

“You got it. Seem OK?”

A deep sigh. “Reasonable, I suppose. Bloody ... cloak and dagger, though, isn’t it? What’s wrong with meeting at a party, or in a pub?”

“Not enough. Not this time.” Bodie was obviously not prepared to compromise.

“Oh, all right. Let’s get on with it. Show me off to your mates.” He pushed back his chair.

“Not straight away.”

Doyle raised his eyebrows, imagination revving up. _Hour or so in a hotel, maybe?_ “Mmm?”

“I can’t afford to blow my cover by heading straight off to Whitehall dressed like this.”

“The job’s over. Who cares?”

“I do. Things are hotting up there and I might have to go back. I want to stop off at my bedsit first. See if we’re being followed before we head to HQ. Get changed.”

On another occasion Doyle might have admired such professionalism, but he was finding himself exasperated, and unwilling to take part in the intrigue. All he said was, “I thought on CI5 pay you could do better than a bedsit.”

“I do. My flat’s in a mansion block at Marble Arch. Or it _was_ when I left. The bedsit’s for the cover.”

Doyle did not respond. He refused to be impressed.

“Well, let’s go then,” and Bodie led the way out.

They got a taxi to the bedsit, with Bodie checking for a tail, and seeing none. He let them in.

“Jesus, this is a dump. Did you actually live here?”

“Yup. For a month. The tent seemed like luxury after this. What do they say?” His voice deepened in an upper-class accent, “Surprisingly spacious.” Then he returned to normal. “Well, spacious until my lodger turned up.” He wiggled his eyebrows at Doyle, who succumbed and grinned, pushing away any doubts about the course his life was taking.

The doubts fled of their own accord as Bodie undressed. Doyle’s heartbeat speeded up, and he sat on the bed, just watching, making no effort to undress himself. When the other man was completely naked and scanning the contents of the small wardrobe, Doyle moved up behind him and put his arms around his waist, pressing himself along the muscled back, and kissing the join of shoulder and neck. Bodie started, but did not turn.

“There’s a bed in the room, you know.” Doyle shifted his hands to Bodie’s hips, and used the grip to rub his groin up and down against Bodie’s buttocks, his stiffening penis rising to search for the orifice it was sure it could feel, even through the thin cotton trousers. Bodie gripped Doyle’s wrists and lifted the hands firmly away. Then he turned around, shaking his head. “Oh, come on. It could be weeks before we have another chance. If we’re both working shifts it’ll be bloody near ...”

“No. You’re still not well.”

“Do I look like an invalid?” He indicated his healthy-looking erection.

“Yes. Come on, mate, get changed.”

Once again, it was obvious that Bodie was not going to compromise. They dressed, standing side-by-side.

Bodie stopped just as he was reaching for the door-handle and turned. “You’re right, it could be weeks.”

Doyle’s cock jerked hopefully, but the other man simply reached out and drew him into a brief kiss, releasing him with, “OK, Sunshine, let’s wow ‘em,” and they stepped outside for their first performance before their public.

* * * * *

The day proceeded much as Bodie had scripted it. The script had missed out Doyle’s boredom and growing annoyance, however, and Bodie’s obliviousness. Bodie went through their story with at least ten colleagues, and from each got a update of CI5 gossip which was incomprehensible to Doyle - hence the boredom.

The annoyance was more subtle. The CI5 men didn’t ignore him, or anything obvious like that. Bodie introduced him each time, involved him in the storytelling. The others were friendly. But he was sure there was more than a hint of condescension. When he was out of earshot they’d be pissing themselves laughing. Yet another story of a bungling, helpless copper - useless with the real criminals, of course, should stick to directing traffic - having to be rescued by omni-competent CI5.

Interspersed with these informal debriefings was the normal business of someone returning to base after a long absence. Bodie tried to see Major Cowley to deliver his report, but the man was out of the office. He dragged them both around the accommodation office, the transport office, the security office, and the armoury, collecting the things which probably recruited more people to CI5 than any inspiring lecture from George Cowley: keys to a Central-London flat, keys to a fast car, an impressive-looking ID, and a lethal weapon.

In the basement, outside the armoury, Bodie looked up from holstering his gun, wearing a satisfied smile which helped confirm for Doyle that CI5 was not the place for him. Bodie frowned, finally noticing the signs of strain on Doyle’s face.

“Are you sure you’re OK? You look rough.”

Doyle paused while he conducted a physical inventory, only then realising that his feeling of unease was due to more than his growing thoughts of _Why the hell have I lumbered myself with this poor man’s James Bond?_

“I guess I must still be an invalid after all.”

“Shit! I’m sorry. I should have taken you to the doctor straight away.” He pulled a face. “I got a bit carried away.”

“I noticed,” said Doyle drily, and was surprised when Bodie reached out briefly to touch his arm.

“Right. That’s our next stop. We’ll take the lift.”

For some reason known only to the architects, the lift did not extend to the basement, so they had to take the stairs to the ground floor, and were thus waiting in the foyer when Cowley arrived back from his meeting. He had seen their names when he had signed in, and his mind had already examined five possible explanations for their arrival together, and had arrived at something very close to the truth.

He greeted them both, and then, ignoring Bodie: “I hope your recent experiences will not influence your decision to join us. You realise that Bodie should not be considered as representative of CI5.”

Doyle concealed his smirk with difficulty, exchanging glances with his pouting lover only when he was sure he would not burst out laughing. Entirely seriously, he replied, “I would like to speak with you about my decision, sir.”

“Now?”

Doyle was about to nod when Bodie interrupted. “Well, actually, sir...” Cowley glared at him, with no effect. “... I was just taking Ray to see Dr. Swanson, and... “

“Are you hurt, man?”

“Not really, but -“

Bodie interrupted again. “We had a bit of a run-in with ben Yussef, and Ray’s... um... the worse for wear.”

“And you’ve been dragging him around the corridors for the last two hours? There are times, Bodie, when I wonder how your brain manages to generate enough power to keep your legs moving.”

“Sir.” An apology, of sorts.

“Well, what are you waiting for, 3.7? Mr. Doyle, Bodie will show you to my office afterwards, and we can discuss your decision. Provided Dr. Swanson says you are fit enough. Otherwise he will take you to hospital, and then report to my office himself.”

The head of CI5 swept away, and the two young men waited in silence for the antique lift. Once inside Bodie leant against the wall with his head tilted back. Doyle watched him warily to see if he was sulking, but a few moments later he lowered his head, caught Doyle’s eye, and smiled ruefully. The smile was returned.

“There are times I wonder why I do this job.”

“I think you know _exactly_ why.”

Bodie grinned in acknowledgement and escorted him from the lift.

* * * * *

The medical examination was short. He had been lucky, it seemed. There was no serious damage and the healing was progressing well, but he would be off the streets for a few weeks at least. Hospital would not be necessary.

Doyle wasted no time in telling Cowley that he would not be joining CI5, repeating and expanding on the reasons he had given to Bodie, and meeting a similar reaction. Cowley, however, did have some questions after Doyle had delivered his speech.

“ _Did_ your meeting with Bodie influence your decision at all?”

“Put me off, you mean? No, I like Bodie.” He smiled and shrugged, “He’s fun.” Then he turned serious, and his voice became sharper, “From what I’ve seen, he’s very good at his job. And he’s _not_ stupid.”

Cowley was surprised, although he hid it from Doyle. So, he wasn’t the only person in the world who felt protective towards Bodie. “No, I know he’s not. But he needs to be chivvied at times.” A pause. “I had been thinking of pairing the two of you.”

Doyle nodded, as if he’d always known that. “I’m sorry. It would have worked.”

Cowley nodded in return, sighing inwardly. That had been his last card. He called Bodie into his office, and ordered him to take Doyle to his police station, and then to return for a full debriefing.

In the CI5 car park Bodie wrote out his address and phone number on the back of a receipt and gave it to Doyle.

“When do you think we’ll be able to get together again?”

“You said it yourself - depends on the shifts. Drop me a line when you get things sorted out your end, and we’ll work something out.”

They drove to the police station in silence.

* * * * *

The reaction to Doyle’s return was spectacular, and Bodie’s presence proved entirely necessary. Ben Yussef had managed to abduct the two policemen with untypical subtlety, and some of his colleagues had been suggesting that they had not been kidnapped, but had succumbed to bribes and were living a life of luxury. Bodie was able to clear up that uncertainty.

However, apart from that practical benefit, Doyle wished that Bodie had stayed away. He did not know the man who had walked into the station with him, and he was not sure he wanted to. He’d seen various aspects of Bodie, and had liked most of them: from playful confidence, through to devouring passion. If he’d known about this narrow-eyed arrogance he would have given a different answer in the cafe.

Mild condescension Doyle had already met and survived, but now Bodie was openly contemptuous of police handling of the case, and he took some minutes to give them the benefit of his greater knowledge and experience. Doyle wanted to hit him, as did everyone else in the room.

Instead he stared down at the table, his toes flexing endlessly against the leather of his shoes - Bodie’s shoes - as the only outlet for his tension. Worst of all, he suspected that Bodie wasn’t actually _trying_ to be offensive, wasn’t even aware that he was insulting his lover with every word.

 _I think I saw him at his very best in Africa._ Discouraging thought. _I should only meet him when he’s undercover. When he gives up this pain-in-the-arse CI5 act, and gets back to being himself._ Of course, that was the generous view - that the person holding forth to the roomful of bent heads and clenched jaws was not the real Bodie. Bad enough though, if this was what the man turned into everywhere in England except CI5 HQ. Bad enough to make memories of feeling desire or affection or compassion seem like hallucinations born of heat-stroke.

Finally Bodie took his leave, managing to imply in his “It’s time I got back to HQ” that he’d wasted enough time with these idiots, and that Whitehall could not survive a moment longer without him. As he got up he touched Doyle lightly on the shoulder. Doyle looked up, eyes cold. Did Bodie even notice his expression? Who could tell?

“Get in touch when you’re free, Ray, and we’ll go for that drink, OK?” He smiled, sunny and untroubled, as if the world was simple.

The memory of affection had become clearer. Nothing was simple, though. Doyle nodded almost absently, and didn’t watch him leave.

The inspector was the first to speak. “So that’s CI5. Cocky bastard, isn’t he?”

Doyle sighed. “He has his moments.”

* * * * *

There was a marked difference in the way that CI5 and the policeforce greeted their wandering sons. In quiet moments Doyle could hear a voice in his head whispering that he’d been a fool, and that Cowley was just at the end of the phone. But partnered with Bodie? Was it such a good idea?

The voice increased in volume when Doyle discovered that he was homeless. His rented flat had been cleared out within three weeks of his disappearance, and had immediately been re-let. It seemed no one had expected him back. His outrage was noted but the most the force would do was give him a place in the section house until he found another flat.

His relief, “B” relief, was on lates. He wandered down to the canteen, and found most of them on meal-break. The welcome was warmer than in the offices but there were, inevitably, some chilling moments.

“Mike upstairs, is he?” Almost the first question, from Medland.

He shook his head. Strange, to be giving this news to another copper. “He’s dead.”

Then the other questions came thick and fast. He gave simple answers, feeling no desire to impress with a vivid story. Bodie became “this CI5 guy”, mentioned only once or twice, as if irrelevant. Gossip would probably elaborate on that, especially after the impression Bodie had made upstairs, but Doyle wasn’t going to give any help.

Finally, he started asking his own questions. “So, who’s had the car, then?”

“Well, Stone’s been driving.” Not surprising. Stone was the other qualified area-car driver in “B” relief. He and Doyle alternated, doing three months at a time. It was probably Stone’s stint anyway. _Must find out the date. Lost track almost immediately._

“And we had someone in from district while West took the course. But he’s been full time since - what? - end of Feb.” Mike Russell had been the relief’s only radio operator. Replaced bloody quickly. But that was the force: it just rolled on regardless. West was OK. Bit staid, not like Mike, but they’d always got on before. He wasn’t in the canteen, neither was Stone. The car crew was an hour out of sync with the rest of the relief. It made sure the streets were covered during shift-change. They’d probably be in in half an hour.

“New probationer?”

“Castle.”

“He here?” Doyle glanced round the room.

“Just missed him. Sawyer got called out. Some old biddy asking for him, he said.”

“ _Sawyer_? He done the Tutor’s course then?”

A shrug. “Not as far as I know. Saxton just ... volunteered him. He wasn’t pleased but he’s getting used to the idea now.”

“How long’s it been?”

“Dunno. Two weeks? Maybe three.”

It must be the beginning of May then. So he hadn’t missed his birthday. He was still 28.

But _Sawyer_! It was an insult. Sawyer just wasn’t steady enough to be a Tutor Constable. He was a cowboy. _I’ll have a word with Saxton._ _Be too late for Castle, though. I won’t be fit for street duties for at least three weeks, and by then he’ll have had his six weeks. Saxton probably thinks it’s a job anyone can do - just like that. Just shows, you only have to get as far as inspector before you start forgetting what life was like when you were out in the real world._

 MacKenzie and Dyall offered to help him get his worldly goods out of storage the next morning, and MacKenzie lent him a tenner to buy “a toothbrush and soap and stuff” in the meantime. There was a bar of soap weighing down the pockets of Bodie’s thin cotton jacket, but he didn’t mention that.

When the canteen emptied, he went back up to the offices to pick up his mail, which had been collected regularly from his old flat, _and_ opened. There wasn’t much anyway, and almost nothing personal. Then he walked to the section house, buying toiletries and a newspaper on the way. The date on the newspaper was Wednesday May the 9th, 1979; Castle must have arrived _three_ weeks ago.

From a quick glance through the news he gathered that he’d just missed a general election (by six days), and that Britain now had its first woman Prime Minister. Well, he probably wouldn’t have voted anyway. Rifling through his mail again, he spotted his polling card, and threw it away.

He lay on his back on the bed in the empty room. It was near mid-summer, and the approach of evening made little difference to the light or the street-noise. This wasn’t how he’d imagined it - being home.

Soon the demands of his injury and the day caught up with him, and he slept until the shift ended and he was called out to the pub.

* * * * *

He didn’t go back to the station until after weekly leave, when he started night shift with the rest of the relief. His own doctor had seen him and ordered light duties for at least a fortnight, and he spent that time in the comms room, sending other people off on calls he wanted to take himself (well, some of them).

At the end of each day he felt as if he hadn’t done anything. He knew that his reactions and decisions were important, but ... it all seemed abstract. It _was_ abstract - crackling voices and a glowing screen in a darkened, windowless room. Could have been sorting out lost orders for frozen peas, not lost or frightened people. He kept telling himself it was only temporary.

He spent some of his off-duty hours looking for a flat, and the rest letting the world know that he was back. The world had barely noticed he’d been gone - only the barstaff in his local bothered to ask questions, and he didn’t tell them the truth, except to say that he wouldn’t be coming in with Mike anymore. He said it had been a car crash.

So much for worrying that the district would fall into chaos without him. As the days went by he put more and more of his time into flat-hunting.

But that search seemed likely to go on forever. He tried not to think about his old flat. God, what would he have to pay for somewhere like that now? Very demoralising.

It was the section house that gave him the energy to trek round hovel after peeling hovel. Incredible that he’d stuck the place for years. Enjoyed it, too. Of course, he’d been young then. Though not as young as this lot, surely. No, he’d been _born_ older than them.

He joined in some of the drinking sessions. Not all. He must definitely be getting old. Or maybe it was the convalescence.

The days were full, but not rewarding. The evenings seemed to sum it up: coming back from the pub having had two pints more than the limit he’d set himself, knowing that the next day would be no different. Finding himself wide awake once in the middle of the night, he started wondering what he used to do with his time before Africa. More than just sit in the pub with Mike chatting up barmaids, surely?

Had his life really been this empty: work, drink, sleep, work, drink, sleep? It wasn’t how he remembered it. He used to go to bed feeling he’d achieved something, learnt something. Why should that have changed? Same job, same people, same city. Same Ray Doyle.

Yes, work had been his main interest, but there had been music, cooking, sports, and his motorbikes. Mostly solitary occupations, true, and occupations that it was difficult to pursue in the noisy and cramped section house: he couldn’t even set up his stereo. Sports were more sociable, but they were out until his stab wound healed completely, and anyway, for sports that required a partner, that partner had always been Mike.

He hadn’t had to tell Mike’s family - the chief superintendent had done that - but he had gone around a few days later and offered what comfort he could, lying where necessary. Most of the relief had gone to the memorial service. No one blamed him ... not openly. Stone came closest, accusing him of taking things too well; Doyle had never known which of them Mike preferred as a driver.

“I’ve had months to get used to the idea, John. You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen me at the time.”

 

And he’d had Bodie to help him over the worst. That was what he’d thought of most during the memorial

service, once the speeches had started and he’d stopped wondering what Mike would have made of it all - Mike, the only copper he’d known who’d _admitted_ to being an atheist.

So it took him about a week to start missing Bodie, and to decide that he did want to see him again after all. He observed his own change of heart, deciding it was mostly loneliness, and a feeling of being left out of the force that came from a number of things. He listed them in the days after the service.

There was the whole business of the abduction and Africa, which was, admittedly, fantastic and which the relief wouldn’t have taken at all seriously if Mike hadn’t died; even so, they had no idea what he’d really gone through. There was the frustration of being kept off the street, watching Sawyer give Castle the hard-drinking, canteen-cowboy’s version of the force. There was the simple fact that he’d missed three months of police life. And there was the canteen’s usual verbal queer-bashing (which went with the stories about wogs and women Prime Ministers), which he was no longer able to tune out.

Of course, seeing Bodie wouldn’t do anything to make him feel part of the force again. Might make it worse in some ways. But he remembered ... closeness, with Bodie, and the need for that gradually got stronger, and his most-recent memories of the man started to fade.


	4. Heat-Trace - Chapter 2

## Chapter 2

When the need broadened to include sex, the balance finally swung decisively in Bodie’s favour. On the tenth day back, the start of a four-day weekly leave, Doyle woke full of unfocused horniness, and promptly focused it on the smell of Bodie’s shirt and on the oil, both fetched hastily from the floor of the wardrobe.

When his hands had stopped shaking and had been washed, he searched through the clutter of letters and keys and cassette boxes in the top drawer, guided there by a sensory memory of clearing out his pockets on the first day. The receipt appeared on the third search. Dressed, he shoved it in his back pocket and hurried downstairs to the pay-phone in the entrance hall.

He could already hear the delight in Bodie’s voice, the deepening over “sunshine” or “Ginger”. Four whole days free, and it was a weekend. Meeting shouldn’t be a problem. He was openly impatient as he waited for the ‘phone, his jeans getting tighter as he paced in front of the noticeboard. Life was so callous at times: making him listen to the inanities of this spotty teenager when he wanted to be fucking like a man.

Bodie did not answer the phone.

Doyle trudged back to his room. Where on earth could Bodie _be_? Stupid to leave it for so long without getting in touch. A man who’d said he preferred women, a man with a strong sex drive (and Doyle should know). Was it likely that he’d been waiting by the ‘phone all this time? Once back to normal he’d probably decided that Doyle just wasn’t worth the risk. Imagine, getting the brush-off. Bodie probably had a lot of practice at that. As much as Doyle did.

No. It didn’t have to be like that. He’d just been out, that was all. Working. It wasn’t as if he was a bank-clerk. Bodie felt something for him, something strong. How could he doubt that? Doyle remembered the smile on his face just before sleep, that night in Brija.

He searched again in the top drawer for a pad of paper and a biro, and sat on the bed with his knees up, the pad resting on a glossy book about Van Gogh that Ann had given him. His address and ‘phone-number, the date, the greeting. Well, that didn’t take long, but then what?

The trouble was, he couldn’t think of anything except sex. Not that that was the only reason he wanted to see Bodie, but it was the most urgent, even though it was less than an hour since he’d come into oil-slick hands. _“Dear Bodie, I want to fuck you through the carpet. Please call and arrange the time and the place.”_ Your carpet or mine?

He stared across the room at a blank wall, and the urgency grew. His hands started to sweat onto the paper and he put the book aside before the page became unusable.

His mind decided: the carpet in the bedroom of his old flat. Navy blue - could have been bought for the purpose of making Bodie’s upthrust arse look fuckable beyond all previous measures of desire. No

preliminaries, not this time. The night in Brija had been just the start of what he wanted to show Bodie.

He’d pulled his T-shirt out of the way in time, and he lay painting trails under his rib-cage and up to his nipples, while his blood redistributed itself. Well, that was settled. He had to find a place with a navy-blue carpet.

One luke-warm shower later, he returned to the letter. It ended up very short, with no mention of sex at all. “They kicked me out of my flat, so I’m stuck here in the section house while I find a new one. The phone’s engaged a lot of the time, but keep trying, and don’t be put off when it’s answered by a teenage copper with no manners at all. That’s how they make them these days.” Some lines (all in the same paragraph) about his wound and the general election, and then he was heading downstairs to the post-office (long closed) to buy a book of stamps from the machine. _Should get it on Tuesday - Wednesday at the latest._

* * * * *

The rest of the weekend was fine, so was Monday. A few more-leisurely wanks - murmured promises to his body - as the end of a day of flat-hunting or of tourist-like wandering.

It was after Tuesday that things got difficult. He stayed in almost all of Tuesday, and on Wednesday afternoon after the end of the shift. No call. No letter. Post _did_ get lost. Sometimes.

He found that he was beyond the point where doubts about Bodie could affect the need for him. It reminded him of his first year of being fostered, before he had realised that his father would never appear from Ireland to fetch him, and before he’d learned to cripple the hope that used to leap at every visitor, phone call, or letter. Would it take a year for his cock to give up hope?

Was it ironic that he’d first been driven back to Bodie by insistent, free-floating lust? He’d said, “When you’ve got to have it, you’ve got to have it now”. With anyone, he’d meant. God, he hadn’t known the half of it then. And this time only one person would do.

 _Why is it this bad? Maybe it’s just because we were together so much - fucked so often._ He’d never met a woman with a fraction of that appetite, never had _his_ appetite so wide awake before. And tastes he never would have dreamed he had. Sometimes his arse felt unbearably empty and neglected, and his fingers could not soothe the longing.

Concentrating at work became very difficult and he felt it was only a matter of time before he disgraced himself. He tried various things to get himself back to normal, but even the deepening depression, which left him no energy for anything else, didn’t drain the fuel from his fantasies. Cold showers were next to useless. Even if Felicity Kendal jumped naked from his wardrobe and wrestled him onto the bed, it wouldn’t count as a return to normal because he’d be thinking of Bodie through every second.

The (partial) solution came to him on the Sunday afternoon, the day before his birthday. It was a stunning day, and the lift he got when he walked into it, blinking, after a morning of crossing and uncrossing his legs in the darkened comms room, took him as far as the Kings Road. He was in search of a birthday present for himself. This had been Ann’s territory. Probably still was. Nothing appealed, unless he wanted to take a punk home with him, and he didn’t.

He walked west to the World’s End, turned north to Fulham Road, and then made his way back. Ah, the Pan Bookshop. Ann’s favourite place. “The only place I know that’s open on a Sunday. I tell you, Ray, the number of times it’s saved my _life_.” Bit much, he’d thought, over a _book_ shop. He wasn’t a great reader. The majority of his books he’d inherited from his mum: most he hadn’t read; some he _couldn’t_ , since they were in French. They’d given Ann a mistaken impression of him, which had lasted a few days less than their affair.

Still, worth a browse. It was crowded - probably all publishers who couldn’t get their acts together to buy their books on a weekday. He found himself pushed towards the Travel section. A title caught his eye. “The Worst Journey in the World.” Hah. _Let me tell you_ my _story, mate. Or have you been travelling with Bodie too?_ He picked it up to scoff. Scott and the Antarctic. Couldn’t get much further from Africa. Well, maybe it would distract him, reading someone else’s problems.

Back at the section house he started the book to kill time before the pubs opened. When Medland came round collecting a possé, he pretended to be out. He was engrossed, and free of obsessive desire for the first time in a week. Such vivid descriptions of intense cold - the most punishing cold shower, directly inside his head. Who could ignore accounts of journeys in which three hours were required each day to thaw out reindeer-skin sleeping bags sufficiently to admit a freezing, soaking, exhausted traveller? The details lingered too, and could be recalled at any time during the shift, to ward off encroaching fantasies.

On Monday afternoon he went to Foyles and bought everything he could find on polar exploration. A surprise birthday present - at least, a change from the bottle of scotch he got himself most years.

He read solidly on Tuesday, which was weekly leave, and by the start of late-shift on Wednesday he was on his way to becoming a world authority on Robert Falcon Scott. By Friday night he was wondering where he could get some more. Maybe if he learnt Norwegian it would give him more scope. The fantasies were waiting. He could tell.

There was a knock on the door. He glanced at his watch. 10.34.

“Phone,” was the terse message.

He didn’t hurry downstairs. Prats in “C” relief unable to read his handwriting again.

“PC Doyle.”

“You’re right, Ray. They make them with no manners at all.”

He closed his eyes briefly. “Bodie.” He could think of nothing more to say.

“I suppose I should be grateful the little git fetched you. The one yesterday just wandered off. Couldn’t get through at all earlier in the evening. Look, I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get in touch. I hope you hadn’t given up on me. The old bastard sent me to Inverness for a fortnight and I only got back yesterday. I wanted to call you at your station and let you know, but -“

Doyle had rediscovered how to breathe. “’s OK. It’s nice to hear from you.”

“Ahh, thank God, you’re still speaking to me. What shifts are you on at the moment?”

“Lates. I just got off half an hour ago.”

“Ah.” Pause. “I don’t suppose you’d like to come round? I know it’s late ...”

“I’d love to.” The frozen sleeping-bags had met their match. He couldn’t have said no, whatever the time.

“Oh, great. Do you know the way?”

“I know it. Should take about half-an-hour.”

They rang off without delay and Doyle rushed back to his room to get his jacket and car-keys. At the threshold of his room he wondered if he should try to subdue his erection before he set out. _No. Take too much time. I can deal with it._ No one seemed to stare as he made his way out - maybe it wasn’t as obvious as it felt.

The block was more modern than he’d expected. Not what he would describe as a mansion, but certainly not a slum. A view of Hyde Park probably, if you took the risk of falling off your balcony. He pressed the buzzer on the entry phone.

“Seventh floor, Ray. You’ll see the lifts.”

The lobby was carpeted in navy blue. Promising. The lift seemed older than the block itself. His heart speeded up as he watched the painted floor-numbers go by on the other side of the folding gate. The main corridor was to the right of the lift, dimly lit. There was a sign with the numbers of the flats. He moved closer in order to read it.

“Ray.” Three doors away, to his left, on the side closest to the lifts. He looked just the same. Just the same as in all the fantasies. They’d incinerate one another. Should he be afraid?

Bodie smiled into the round, serious eyes. “Hello, Ray. Come in.”

Once the door was closed they just stood in the small hallway looking at each other. Bodie’s smile faded as Doyle did not return it, and as the intense scrutiny continued.

“Ray?” Concerned.

Doyle slowly realised that Bodie’s worry and hesitation were not the same as his own. Bodie had not been having the same fantasies after all. In Bodie there was no two-week-starved passion pawing at the door of its cage, by now too ravenous to be freed. For Bodie this was just a welcome late-night visit from a friend.

There would be no incineration. That didn’t happen in the real world. They would be quite safe.

The urgency disappeared in a fraction of a second. He reached out and Bodie’s strong arms held him close. Closeness. That had been the beginning of the need, after all.

They were both murmuring in contentment, rubbing the sides of their faces together in time with their breathing. Doyle felt Bodie’s jaw smooth against his stubble, and smelt aftershave, and thought, “He shaved for me.” A detail his single-minded imagination had never suspected.

He shifted his head and kissed and licked Bodie’s neck, moving slowly up and along his jaw. He could feel the man’s cock hardening against him, a twin to his own, and moved his hands to pull their groins closer together. By the time he’d completed his journey to Bodie’s lips they were both breathing hard. He was surprised, then, when Bodie did not open his lips to him, but pulled gently away, with only a chaste touch to the corner of his open mouth.

“Let me show you round the rest of the place. Won’t take long.”

While Doyle stood frowning, Bodie reached back to open the door on the left of the hallway, and pulled a cord to switch on the light. “Bathroom.” Doyle caught a glimpse of deep-turquoise and black. A long, thin room, and cramped. Barely enough space for the bath. The light went off.

Then the room opposite the front door. “Bedroom.” Cream and brown. Dominated by the double-bed. At the far side of the room (about fifteen feet away) were the doors onto the minute balcony, and beyond that, the rooftops of west London.

Then Bodie led him through the remaining door, to the right. It was already softly lit by a standard lamp and two table lamps. More cream. The TV and stereo were stacked against the wall to the right of the door, with the sofa facing them a few yards away. Roughly opposite the door, set in the far wall, was a marble fireplace, with an electric fire in the grate. Beyond the sofa, the room was almost bare. There was a large wooden table underneath the window. Some bookcases - filled with the clutter of keys and cassette cases rather than books. Pictures on the wall, which Doyle couldn’t make out in the dim light.

“Make yourself comfortable. What would you like to drink?”

“Um.” Was it his imagination, or was Bodie playing hard to get? Didn’t make sense. He’d sounded keen enough over the ‘phone. And a few seconds ago. “Gin and tonic, please.”

He didn’t make himself comfortable, but followed Bodie across the room to the kitchen, which was to the right of the window. He leant against the doorframe while Bodie fixed two G&Ts there wasn’t enough room for two people in the kitchen.

“How do you cook in here? You can barely move.”

“Don’t need to move to bung a frozen pizza in the oven, do you?”

“That’s your idea of cooking, is it?”

“That and take-aways.”

“Mmm.”

Bodie emerged with the two drinks in heavy cut-glass. “Let’s sit down.” On the way to the sofa, Doyle finally noticed the double-doors that could only lead to the bedroom. They were shut, but it still seemed very blatant. He hoped Bodie wasn’t going to make them linger over their drinks.

They sat down, and Bodie handed over Doyle’s glass. “I meant to get some champagne in to celebrate ... this, you know. But I haven’t had a chance to do anything since I got back. You’re lucky they didn’t move me while I was away, or we’d be sitting on packing cases and drinking tap water.”

Doyle got the impression that complaining about CI5 was one of Bodie’s main pleasures in life.

“Champagne, eh?”

A shrug. “I know it’s a cliché, but I like the stuff.”

“So do I. Next time then.”

Bodie smirked. “I’ll buy a case.”

Well, that seemed clear enough. No brush-off to come, at any rate, even if Bodie was taking his time. “This place is smaller than I expected.”

“It’s not one of the best. I managed to piss Cowley off just before the last shuffle. You should have seen my last place.”

Doyle said bitterly, “I wish you could have seen _mine_.”

“Yeah? What happened there?”

Doyle complained at length, having finally found someone who would listen. Bodie made exactly the right noises of sympathy throughout. As a reward, Doyle finished with, “How was Inverness?” Bodie’s description had them both laughing. Maybe Bodie was right, insisting on this time to talk. They needed to be friends as well as lovers.

When Bodie finished, they sat in comfortable silence for some moments, until Doyle leaned forward to put his glass down on the carpet, and shifted closer. But Bodie tensed slightly when Doyle reached over to caress his inner thigh. Doyle could no longer dismiss this as his imagination.

He spoke with the force of two weeks of frustration, two weeks of waiting for the ‘phone to ring. “What’s going on, Bodie? Since when have you played hard to get? Have you gone off me? Or decided it’s not worth the risk? You could just have dropped me a line, you know. I wouldn’t have embarrassed you by camping out on your doorstep or anything like that.”

Bodie was shaking his head, very serious. He took Doyle’s hand and pressed it against his own thigh again, then gathered him close with an arm around his waist.

“No. I haven’t gone off you.”

“Prove it.” Doyle turned to pull him down into a deep kiss, which rode out Doyle’s initial challenge and fierceness, ending as a prolonged rediscovery. When they finally raised their heads, Doyle moved his hands to cup the other man’s face.

“All right. I’m convinced. But there is something wrong, isn’t there?”

Bodie closed his eyes and swallowed, then sighed.

“Ray, I don’t know how to tell you this, but ... I can’t let you fuck me again.”

“ _What?_ ” Doyle snatched back his hands.

“I’m sorry. I wish things were different, but I just ...” A jerking swallow. “I just can’t do it again.”

“You enjoyed it. You’re lying if you try and tell me any different.”

Bodie nodded, and reached out. But Doyle leapt to his feet to evade the placating hands, and banged his calf against the coffee-table, which slid back several inches.

“This is some kind of macho shit, isn’t it? You’ve got all frightened for your image now you’re back home. But I don’t hear you saying that _you_ can’t fuck _me_. Way your mind works _that_ doesn’t make you queer, I suppose.”

Bodie was standing too, hands still outstretched. “ _No, Ray_. It’s not like that. Please listen to me. Of course I enjoyed it. You made it perfect. If it was up to me, you’d be ... inside me right now, but...”

Doyle interrupted, “What the hell are you talking about? Who’s forcing you into this bloody chastity belt? _“If it was up to me.”_ I can’t ...”

“ _Please_ , Ray, _listen_.” The distress was clear, and Bodie was no actor. Doyle listened. “I can’t because I’ve ... been having nightmares.” Shaking his head. “Awful nightmares. They started just afterwards ... on the boat, and they’ve been getting worse and worse. I can’t control it. If you try again, I’ll probably scream and jump out of the window.”

Doyle’s anger fled, leaving just numbness. “I hurt you, then.” His voice held the sadness and guilt that he couldn’t yet feel, having been so confident for so long. He sat down slowly, and gazed at the carpet. His words were barely audible. “I never wanted to hurt you. I just wanted ... I wanted it to be good for you.”

Bodie sat next to him, and put one hand on his knee and the other arm around his bowed shoulders. “It _was_ good. Perfect. The nightmares aren’t about that. They’re about something else. Nothing to do with you. But we can’t do it again. It would be ...” He swallowed again. “I think it would put us both off sex for life. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, Ray.”

Doyle believed him. He drew back slightly to free his right arm, then laid it gently on Bodie’s back. They rested against one another for many silent minutes, heads very close.

Finally, “Ray, if you want to finish it, I can understand. It’s not fair to do this to you.”

Doyle raised his head. Finish it? Because of nightmares he _knew_ he’d caused, whatever Bodie said? What sort of person would do that? In reply he turned to cradle Bodie’s head and, closing his eyes, leaned forward to meet the other’s parted mouth. He absorbed Bodie’s moan, and made no protest at the painfully-tight grip around his chest.

The grip eased after a while, and Bodie drew back, smiling. He ran a hand over Doyle’s forehead and into his hair. Doyle leaned into the rhythmic strokes of the fingertips, smiling. He’d never seen Bodie so openly gentle.

“Thank you, Ray.” Almost a whisper. “Anyone else would have walked out.”

Doyle just shook his head. After a quick, closed-mouthed kiss, he turned his attention to Bodie’s shirt, and undid the top button. “Why don’t we go to bed?”

* * * * *

They took it all very, very slowly - you wouldn’t have thought it had been nearly a month. Undressing took many minutes, the slide of each garment turned into a caress. Once in bed they lay entwined, kissing and talking quietly, savouring each square-inch of contact with naked skin, letting desire build gradually into something easy and luxurious.

It was the first time they’d had sex without penetration. It was perfect for their subdued mood, and they both seemed to know that, without having to discuss it. Previously Doyle had not thought of such sex as proper sex, as really making love, associating it with adolescent desperation and lack of opportunity; now he was less puzzled by the question of what lesbians could possibly do in bed.

Afterwards, Bodie got up to open the curtains, and they lay in the combination of moonlight and streetlight. Doyle looked out at the warm summer night.

“Bodie?” His voice was very quiet. “Do you think the nightmares will ever stop?”

A long pause. “I don’t know. I haven’t had them before. Not like this. We’ll just have to see. You won’t want me to fuck you until they do.” It was a simple statement.

“I’m not that petty, Bodie.”

“What’s petty about it? It was important enough to you in Brija, wasn’t it? And so it should be. After I was ... selfish all that time. You’ve a right to be ... petty, or anything you want.”

It was nearly an apology. “If you hadn’t been selfish I wouldn’t be here.” Doyle paused and listened to what he’d said. “That doesn’t sound quite right, but you know what I mean. It _was_ important to me then but ... I think I trust you more now. I know who you are. I don’t need ... proof the way I did in Brija. And it really _would_ be petty to stop us fucking when I like it so much. I’ve been missing it these last weeks.”

He felt Bodie’s cock nudge his hip, and there was an answering itch from his anus. Neither was in the mood to take it further, though. Doyle vowed that he would never let Bodie suspect the full range of his fantasies during those weeks.

The subject was closed, as far as Doyle could see, and he started talking about his flat-hunting, too relaxed now to moan as he might have with anyone else. It was good to know he could make Bodie laugh.

Soon the laughs became mixed with yawns.

“Am I boring you?” Doyle pretended offence.

“Never. It’s just it’s nearly one, and I’ve been up since five.”

“Is it?” Doyle turned his head to look at the red digits of the alarm clock.

“It’s OK. I’ve got the weekend off. Keep me up all night. I won’t complain.”

 _He wouldn’t either. Probably leap up to get me breakfast in bed._ It was a lovely thought. He could imagine Bodie coming through those double-doors with a tray. That would see him off to the comms room in a great mood. Better than instant coffee in the section house. _Ah. Damn. The section house._

“I don’t think I can stay the night.”

“Why not? You’re on lates, aren’t you?”

“They gossip in the section house. I’m out of place _anyway_ , and they might put two and two together. You know - gets a ‘phone call from a bloke, leaves the house with a hard on, stays out all night.”

“Did you?”

“What?”

“Leave the house with a hard on.”

“I told you I’d been missing you.”

Bodie ruffled his hair, but his voice was sharp, all drowsiness gone. “And the rude git who answered the ‘phone saw you?”

“I don’t think he did. I wasn’t that far gone. But we shouldn’t take chances, should we?”

“No. Damn. Well, tomorrow I won’t ‘phone. You’ll stay tomorrow night, won’t you?”

“Yeah. I’ll invent some bird if anyone asks. I’d better go now, though. Let you get to sleep.” He sat up, gave Bodie a swift but thorough kiss, and then got out of bed, gathered up his clothes, and disappeared in the direction of the bathroom.

Bodie got up too, pulled on a dressing-gown, and waited in the sitting room. They spent longer in the hallway saying goodbye than they had saying hello.

* * * * *

Doyle slept soundly, after the first exercise he’d had since returning to Britain.

He woke around nine and lay thinking wistfully about Bodie and breakfast in bed. Then he started thinking about the rest of the night before. All in all it had been good. Very good in a gentle way.

Maybe their ... affair wasn’t going to be the way he’d imagined, though he couldn’t have said what he _had_ imagined. Bodie saying, “It doesn’t matter about my father now, Ray. You chased the nightmares away forever. This proves we belong together, Ginger. I knew it from the start.” Well, Bodie didn’t speak like that, of course. And now he had no reason to say anything of the sort. Quite the opposite.

Bodie didn’t seem to blame him, though, and that was amazing if the new nightmares were anything like the one in the desert. He should be grateful for that, and concentrate on getting used to the idea that he couldn’t fuck Bodie (at least until the nightmares stopped). Get used, too, to the idea that he couldn’t solve every problem in the world. The sex was still going to be good, and they were going to have fun together. That was enough for most people.

He took himself out to a local caff for breakfast, and on the way he threw the soap and the vials of oil into a wastebin. He had no use for them anymore.


	5. Heat-Trace - Chapter 3

## Chapter 3

On Saturday night he drove to Bodie’s flat straight from the station. Bodie had the champagne ready in an ice-bucket on the coffee table. He obviously took the accessories of alcohol fairly seriously.

“Or we could save it for breakfast?” he suggested as Doyle sat down.

“Not this time. I don’t drink before work.”

“You’re not on duty till two.”

“I don’t care. I have to have a chance to sleep it off.” He was expecting further argument, but Bodie just nodded and picked up the bottle and a tea-towel.

“D’you want to put some music on?”

Doyle browsed through the collection of records, which looked as if it could have been bought by the inch to fill a show-flat - all rock standards (some of which Doyle had himself), but no sign of selection or preferences. In the end he settled on a Fleetwood Mac album. Bodie came up behind him to switch the amplifier on, and then handed him his glass.

“Cheers.”

As he reached the end of his second glass, Doyle was surprised to hear himself say, “Did you get any lubricant when you were out shopping today?”

“No.”

“Well, we’ll have to get some K-Y, or something. We can’t go on using gun-oil forever.”

“I know. There’s Vaseline in the bathroom. That’ll do, won’t it?”

“Oh. OK.” A pause and a shrug. “Well, what are we waiting for?”

Bodie put down his glass, still half-full, and they stood up together. Bodie made a detour to the bathroom, and by the time he reached the bedroom, Doyle was already naked, and waiting for him in the centre of the big bed.

It was much quicker and more urgent than it had been the night before, barely recognisable as the same activity. But Bodie was as careful as he could be, and Doyle was the one who forced the pace. It had never been quite like that before. Maybe it could even count as a first time, of sorts.

Afterwards Doyle lay and listened to his pulse racing - definitely more exercise than he was used to - and barely had the energy to roll over and let Bodie clean his hands and stomach with the damp flannel. He knew he was smiling stupidly. Bodie ran a fingertip along the line of that smile, and then bent to disrupt it with a kiss.

Bodie took the flannel back to the bathroom, and returned through the double-doors with filled glasses of champagne. With an effort, Doyle sat up. It was strangely touching to have Bodie taking so much trouble over him. He’d been wrong to think that he’d seen him at his very best in Africa. He settled in the curve of Bodie’s arm, his hand on Bodie’s naked thigh.

As long as this wasn’t all out of pity, or something like that. Indulgence.

No, it wasn’t. Just Bodie being a good host.

 _He won’t always be this polite and careful, though, will he?_ His pulse quickened again as he remembered the passion he knew Bodie possessed. Then it had been frightening. Now, when he knew Bodie so much better ... They hadn’t lost that, had they?

Doyle had been expecting Bodie to start yawning again past midnight, but instead he was wide awake, having slept well in preparation. They drank coffee and brandy, and listened to a Paul Simon album playing in the next room. Doyle talked about music, talked about all the tracks he’d be able to play Bodie when he got his hi-fi set up in his new flat. Bodie seemed to be looking forward to the day as much as he was.

When the record ended, Doyle put his coffee cup aside. “I hope you’re not finished for the night, Bodie.” He looked down at Bodie’s groin so there could be no misunderstanding. Bodie lifted the sheet up, showing that, on the contrary, he was nicely started, and Doyle bent down open-mouthed, wanting to draw out that passion no matter how remote its hiding place. He succeeded. And it wasn’t frightening at all.

* * * * *

To Doyle’s surprise, Bodie insisted on having a Sunday newspaper to go with their breakfast. He popped out to the tube station while Doyle was squeezing oranges, and came back with a Sunday Times and a News of the World. Even more surprising, he started with the Sunday Times. Doyle flicked through the colour supplement, and then caught up with the sex life of various vicars.

“You do this every Sunday?”

“Every day. I _have_ to know what’s going on. It could save my life.”

 _Over-dramatic_ , Doyle thought. _Still, who can blame his doing the James Bond bit occasionally. I would, if I was in CI5._

* * * * *

On Monday morning he drove from Bodie’s straight to his doctor’s, arriving first in the queue since Bodie had left to go to work at eight. He was cleared for beat duty. It had taken longer than he’d expected. Maybe his depressed mood at the end of May had set him back.

Woods had the locker next to him. Woods was one of the section house gossips he’d had in mind.

“Haven’t seen you round the last few days. Or nights. Started driving in, eh?” He wiggled his eyebrows. Doyle expected a nudge in the ribs.

He shrugged. “Got lucky. Friend set me up with this Australian bird, and now she won’t let me alone.”

Woods asked for details, and he supplied them, mixing features at random from previous girlfriends.

Fortunately he hadn’t got his hopes up about going straight back on the beat; they’d got used to having him in the comms room. He got a promise, though, that they’d start him on Wednesday, after weekly leave.

* * * * *

On Tuesday evening he finally met Bodie somewhere outside Bodie’s flat. After a day spent flat-hunting, he arrived at CI5 HQ at 6.30 in the evening. This was the next stage in their plan to establish Doyle as a normal, healthy part of Bodie’s life.

Doyle reported at the desk as a visitor for Mr Bodie; it occurred to him, as it had when he’d written the letter, that he didn’t know Bodie’s Christian name.

Bodie arrived minutes later, part of a group of young agents. Doyle was sure he’d been introduced to some of them before. He couldn’t remember any of their names, but they seemed to know him. The agents signed out, making “God, I’m looking forward to that pint”-noises. It had been a hot, dusty day. Bodie asked Doyle if he minded joining the lads for a swift drink, making it sound as if the two were meeting for an evening’s pub crawl. Doyle nodded, and they all trooped off to the CI5 local.

Doyle wondered if the bar staff and other regulars had any idea what the young men were. Probably some idea - they were young, conspicuously fit, obviously not briefcase-carrying civil servants - it was a fair bet they were Government security of some kind. Government security: it sounded innocuous, as if all they did was check identity cards, and X-Ray attache cases. Could anyone outside the organisation really imagine what his lover did for a living? Could he? Really?

Not now, anyway, when Bodie was leaning against the bar, ordering a round. The tallest one of the group appeared to guess that Doyle remembered far less about them than they did about him, and took charge of re-introductions and of giving a brief description of each man’s background. Doyle wondered if CI5 was still trying to recruit him, and if this was an attempt to show him that all kinds of people joined the squad. If so, it wasn’t a convincing attempt. The choice seemed narrow: Taylor, ex-CID; McCabe, ex-SAS; Lucas, ex-Special Branch; and the tall Murphy himself, ex-Outward-Bound fanatic and survival expert.

Doyle liked Murphy, who seemed unusually sociable, and was making a real effort to include him in the conversation. He asked him how he’d come to the attention of Cowley, since his background was the most unusual. “I mean, it seems a big step from taking parties of schoolkids up Snowdon, to ... uh ... this.” He gestured vaguely, not sure how explicit he should be.

Murphy gave him the long version of the story, explaining that he’d moved from a recreational Outward Bound centre to teaching survival courses for offshore workers.

“You know, firefighting, how to launch a liferaft, how to escape from an upturned helicopter, that kind of thing. Pretty basic, but not just sport. Some people find teaching kids rewarding. I don’t.

“Anyway, I started taking an interest in the oil industry, and one day it occurred to me that an oil platform is a perfect kidnap victim, especially if it’s sitting on top of a pipeline that connects lots of fields: it’s worth a lot of money to a lot of people to keep the stuff flowing down the pipeline. A group of kidnappers could simply fly in by helicopter - no one could stop them landing - take the crew hostage, and threaten to blow up the line. They’re in a perfect defensive position on a platform; it’s like a castle on top of a cliff, with a keep, and a fucking enormous moat. I got quite into this idea - defending the platforms against it, that is - and I wrote to various oil companies pointing out the possibilities and offering my immense tactical expertise. Of course -“

“They’d already thought of it.”

“Thank you, Bodie. So I didn’t make a fortune as a consultant in industrial terrorism. But the letters got passed around, and the Cow called me in to see if I was a dangerous nutter, and decided -“

“That you were just dangerous enough for us,” interrupted Bodie again.

“I wouldn’t put it like that, but yes.”

Doyle was thoughtful. “That’s interesting. But ... wouldn’t it be difficult picking up the money and getting away from the platform?”

Bodie laughed. “Naughty, Ray!”

Murphy nodded. “Yes, that _is_ the tricky part. If you come up with a foolproof idea, we’ll share the money.”

“So, how _do_ they protect the platforms?”

Bodie replied, “Well, they don’t do much to prevent an attack, but they do have plans for sieges. When I was with the SAS I was in an exercise on ... a Shell platform, I think it was. Climbing up the legs in the middle of the night, that kind of thing. It was like a Milk Tray ad - no connection to the real world. Murph’s onto something: a group that got its shit together could just breeze in ... and breeze out.”

“Do you think anyone would actually do it?”

The other men shrugged, and Doyle raised his eyebrows, intrigued by the challenge of the kidnap, and even more intrigued by the challenge of trying to imagine the kind of mind that would plan and execute it - it was a crime that seemed to him more abstract than computer crime. A far cry from pub fights in Kentish Town, from the world _he_ felt comfortable in.

They ended up staying in the pub for nearly an hour. Doyle enjoyed himself more than he had thought he would. The agents were entertaining company: quick, cynical, and laid-back. They kept to the usual neutral topics for men in pubs: sport, violence, work, alcohol, and sex - topics specially chosen to conceal the true personalities of the participants. Doyle learnt little about the psychological make-up of CI5 agents, or of the real demands of the job.

He wondered what would have happened to him if he had joined the squad, if he had been teamed with Bodie? Would this pub talk be any different? What if Africa had never happened, and the two of them had met for the first time in Cowley’s office, as he partnered them? He looked at Bodie curiously, trying to imagine such a meeting. _He’d have been difficult. I’ve seen the way he reacts to policemen._ Maybe Bodie hadn’t been at his best in Africa, but it was lucky that they’d met there.

Here in London he might have proved impossible to get to know, beyond this kind of superficial pub chat. They would surely never have become lovers.

That thought chilled him, and a look of abstracted sadness passed over his face. Bodie, glancing around to check that Ray wasn’t getting impatient with the bitching session about training schedules, saw the look, and raised his eyebrows.

“Do you want to get on?”

Doyle shook his head. “No hurry.”

But as soon as Doyle has finished his pint Bodie excused them both, and lead the way to the CI5 car park.

“Sorry about that, Ray. I’ll make sure we only stay for a half, in future.”

Doyle insisted he hadn’t been bored, but didn’t think the other was convinced.

* * * * *

When Doyle switched to nights on Wednesday, the pattern of the last four days had to change. Bodie was working nine to five, which meant they could only meet for four hours or so in the evenings. Before this Doyle has always enjoyed nights, because they showed him a side of the city that few saw. Now the city didn’t matter so much. He wanted to see Bodie, from any side he could.

On Wednesday evening, anyway, they had no chance to try out the new pattern, since Doyle had firearms practice. When he’d turned out to be a spectacularly good shot he’d been drafted into the Met firearms squad. It wasn’t a full-time assignment, but meant that he was occasionally on call, and had to attend the training sessions - this was the first since he’d returned to England.

He’d never been happy about being a member of the squad, though he knew better than to say so - not that anyone had asked. He loved shooting - he just didn’t want to be put into the position where he might have to kill someone. So far it hadn’t happened. He had fired. He had injured. But he hadn’t killed.

The members of the squad did not talk about what it might be like, or how they would feel, or how they would cope, but there were stories, usually repeated with a sneer, about those who had not coped at all: “... left the force and can’t stop talking about it. Boring as hell.” - “... never picked up a gun again.” Doyle did not want to become one of these stories. He couldn’t think, now, why he’d ever considered CI5 for a second. It would be like the Firearms Squad, but 24-hours a day.

Over the years he’d adjusted to the work, more or less, by telling himself that the other person in the shoot-out had a better chance of surviving an encounter with him than with almost anyone else. After all, he was, as he’d told Bodie, one of the best with a handgun. He’d demonstrated this in public on two occasions, and had thus come to the attention of George Cowley.

Though he hadn’t been looking forward to it, he enjoyed the practice session. It was pure target work, with none of the attempts to simulate a shoot-out that Doyle always found embarrassing. And it was his first session for over three months, with the squad glad to welcome him back. He felt more relaxed than ever before about being on the squad.

Thinking about this afterwards in the bar, over an orange juice, he decided that there were more benefits to being on the squad than there were drawbacks.

 _Odd. I don’t think I’d have said that after the last session. What’s changed?_ And then he wished he’d left the whole question alone, because he thought he knew the answer.

He had killed a man in Africa. He had forgotten. He had simply forgotten.

 _It was self-defense._ Then, impatiently, _Yes, I_ know _it was self-defense. It would be self-defense if I shot some nutter in Grosvenor Square, but I always thought that I would ... Christ ... lose sleep over it. What sort of person doesn’t even_ remember _a fortnight later?_

He thought about Bodie, who had probably killed for the first time while Raymond Doyle had been marking time at school until he could join the force as a cadet. Had Bodie lain awake in his tent or his barracks, wondering what would become of him? Or had he decided that the world owed him a few deaths? He wouldn’t blame him, whatever the answer was.

Bodie probably wouldn’t understand why this was important to him. But he wished he could see Bodie before shift, talk to him a bit. Bodie would listen, and nod, and try to comfort him. He couldn’t imagine Bodie ever turning him away. Bodie would accept him, even at those times when he couldn’t accept himself.

* * * * *

He parked his car at the section house, and went to his room to change into half-blues. The ‘phone in the lobby was free. He could ‘phone him. Bodie hadn’t mentioned any plans for the evening - he’d probably be in. But he couldn’t say all he wanted to say, and what else was there to say, except, “I wanted to hear the sound of your voice.” True, but not something you’d say to _Bodie_ , surely. He wouldn’t know how to react, and it would embarrass both of them.

By the time he’d dawdled through the lobby thinking this through, the ‘phone was no longer free. Hell, it was no hardship waiting until Thursday evening anyway.

It was a quiet shift once the pubs had closed and the streets had cleared. Not a dramatic resumption of his vocation, but then he wasn’t in it for drama.

He was assigned to a car patrol with Alan Tennant, a middle-aged, career constable who’d been at the station even longer than Doyle. Tennant was in his last few months with the force - he would be moving to Brighton to run a restaurant with his brother, a chef. That gave them something to talk about, at least; they’d figured one another out years ago.

Though neither the shift nor Tennant was exciting, Doyle decided it was a good start - better than a hectic late shift with one of those ambitious youngsters desperate to impress CID and get out of the big hat.

He and Tennant saw the job in the same way.

You got more done on the streets, at the lowest level. OK, so you got ordered around sometimes, given jobs that could have been done by a shop dummy. But most of the time you were out on your own, with no one looking over your shoulder, because management were all stuck in their offices at the station, and if you didn’t want to take a call, you could pretend your radio wasn’t working.

What was the point in promotion (apart from the money)? You spent more and more time in an office, with your boss just down the corridor. You couldn’t pick and choose in the same way. Never got the adrenalin going. Never got to use the siren on the area car. And you spent your time sorting out other coppers, not the public. Where was the satisfaction in that?

So Doyle ended the shift content with his choice in life. He’d long got used to hearing his grade talked of as the lowest form of existence, as a purgatory, and didn’t take it personally, confident that if he’d been interested in promotion, his abilities would have been obvious to any selection board. But he _wasn’t_ interested, and his abilities were being used quite well enough where he was.

He arrived at Bodie’s at six on Thursday evening. There was no answer when he rang the buzzer, so he sat on the steps and waited, while Bodie’s neighbours returned from work or from shopping expeditions, and stepped past him without a glance. Bodie finally arrived at about twenty past, full of apologies about a meeting that had over-run. He tasted of Directors bitter.

Doyle cooked some pasta, and they ate at the table under the windows, which ran the full width of the sitting room, and around the left-hand corner to look onto the balcony. They were all open, and the breeze brought a smell of flowers and hot pavements.

Despite his intentions, Doyle gave only a brief description of the Firearms session, mentioning nothing of his own grim thoughts in the bar. It didn’t seem important now, on such a beautiful summer evening, with Bodie sitting opposite wolfing down pasta. Why spoil the mood with his complaints, when he knew so well what Bodie would say that there was no need to hear him say it?

“Oh. Can you give me a key? So I can let myself in if you’re held up.”

A shake of the head. “Wish I could. This place has got security sensors all over it. If you even breath in here while I’m out on duty, you’ll have half CI5 storming the building within five minutes.”

A lop-sided smile, half-cynical, half-amused. “You love to dramatise things, don’t you?”

“All right. Six minutes. But I can’t give you a key. Just ... give up if I’m more than half an hour late. How’s the flat-hunting going?”

They went to bed around eight, but it seemed rushed and self-conscious to Doyle, probably more his fault than Bodie’s. It’d get better when they got used to nights. The afterglow faded quickly, doused by the prospect of patrolling the streets of Kentish Town in less than two hours time.

Doyle said, “How about going to see a film tomorrow? It’s months since I’ve been to the West End.”

“What d’you want to see?”

“Dunno. I’ll get a paper. We’ll fight it out then.”

“OK.”

They settled on a Soho pub to meet in, and talked about the most-recent films they’d seen until it was time for Doyle to leave. He spent a lot of the shift looking out of his side-window and sighing to himself. If only he could be tucked up in bed with Bodie.

Bodie was a few minutes late arriving at the pub, having underestimated the time it would take him to walk from Whitehall. By the time he arrived, Doyle had made a unilateral decision about what they were going to see, and Bodie made no protest.

Doyle found himself sighing again during the film, and not through exasperation at the plot. Here he was sitting next to Bodie in a darkened room, and he couldn’t touch him. For the first time, he compared this affair with those he’d had with women. It made him sad.

As they walked through Leicester Square to the tube station, Doyle said quietly, “I wanted to hold your hand in there. First time I’ve sat in the back row and not got the benefit.”

A sharp look, and then a shake of the head. “You _can’t_ , Ray. You should stop thinking like that. Forget all about it, or you’ll give us both away.”

Doyle nodded, even sadder, and studied the litter he was wading through. Was that just Bodie being pragmatic, or was it a warning not to get soppy?

“Why don’t you come round tomorrow morning after work?”

“After work?” A faint scathing note. “I just go home and sleep.”

“Well, you can sleep with me, can’t you? I don’t snore. I’ll get you breakfast or lunch or whatever you want.”

Doyle finally looked up. He studied Bodie for some seconds. “Yeah, OK.”

At the entrance to the station they just nodded at one another and went their separate ways. As he waited on the crowded platform, Doyle thought, _It’s just under a week since he called. Feels like longer. I wish I knew what was going to happen between us. Got nothing to go on. Nothing to compare. And I suppose in some ways I don’t really know him at all. It’s early days. Very early days._

* * * * *

Bodie was fully dressed when he opened the door at 6.30 on Saturday morning, not looking rumpled in his dressing-gown as Doyle had expected.

“You’re one of these early-morning people, are you?” _Great. He’ll be clomping around next door. Watching TIZWAS while I’m trying to sleep._

“Eh?”

“Well, you’re up already. I thought you’d join me for a few hours at least.”

“Oh. I haven’t been to bed.”

“Not at all?”

“Didn’t see the point. I went back to HQ and saw off some reports. Just as well I did. ‘s been a last-minute change of plan - as _usual_ \- and I’m off to Surrey tomorrow. Then I went to the gym for a few hours.”

“What time was that?”

Shrug. “About two. There’s this place near St. Albans we use that’s open 24-hours. Found one of your lot looking for a game of squash.”

“D’you beat him?”

Bodie grimaced and see-sawed his hand.

Doyle smiled and moved closer, putting a hand on his lover’s waist. “You must be worn out. Come on.”

When Doyle came back from the bathroom, Bodie had drawn the thick, brown-velvet curtains and closed the double-doors, but the light-seal wasn’t perfect - you could tell it was day outside. Somehow it made the scene even more intimate, made it more obvious that they were shutting themselves away from the world. Bodie lay on his back on the side nearest the window, head turned on the pillow to watch Doyle come in. He rolled onto his side when Doyle was naked, and held the covers back for him.

Bodie’s thigh felt solid, smooth and still, a firm centre for Doyle to gather around. Objectively, Bodie’s body wasn’t so very different from his own, he knew, but Bodie’s felt so very substantial, while his own, from the inside, felt light as air. He ran the back of his hand against Bodie’s stomach, just above the base of his cock.

“Just how tired _are_ you? Really worn out?”

“Move your hand further down and you’ll find out.”

He didn’t. “But can you finish what I start?”

“Is that a challenge?”

He paused. His hands stopped stroking. “No. Just a question. I’ve only worked a standard shift. Not like you. I fancy ... taking our time. But we can wait, if you’d rather.”

Bodie’s palm was hot in the small of his back. “I’m not about to fall asleep on you. You can do all the work, though, if you’re making the offer.”

Doyle’s hand moved again, his fingers entering the thatch of coarse hair, his wrist grazing the delicate skin of the erection. “I am.” He turned his hand so he could comb and tug with his fingertips. You could tell just by the feel that it was black. So thick. So strong. Like everything about Bodie. “This scratches.”

“I’m so-“

“When you’re right inside me it scratches against my bum. It feels so different from everything else. Light and dry and ... tickling. Sometimes I don’t even notice it. It’s exciting when I do, though. Makes your cock feel even hotter and harder.” That cock was arching over his hand, now, Bodie’s breath moist against his temples.

“Ray.” Two breaths. “Please.”

“We’re taking our time, remember.” His own breath wasn’t much steadier, so he made an effort to control it. He lifted the hand away, and then levered himself to his knees. The duvet fell away behind him. He could barely see Bodie in the dim light. This wasn’t usually their way, but Bodie hadn’t turned the bedside light on when he got the room ready. They didn’t need sight for this.

The first time he touched Bodie’s cock properly was to coat it in gel. Then he left it to pinch at nipples and belly and inner thigh. Bodie lay nearly still, grunting, and twitching from time to time, but not following up his complaints with any action.

“Close your eyes.” Bodie probably obeyed, though Doyle couldn’t see well enough to be sure if the eyes were tight shut. The sounds would have told Bodie, anyway, that Doyle had taken the tube again, and when the hands did not touch him, it would be a fair guess what they were doing. Doyle wanted the illusion, though. He didn’t know why.

Insertion was surprisingly difficult. His muscles were tense with the strain of balancing, and Bodie’s cock was very slippery. After the second failure, Bodie reached out to support his hips. “We don’t have to. It’s too much for you.”

“No. Just need practice. Hold me steady.”

Later, “’s scratching. Here, feel.” Bodie moaned as Doyle took his hand and guided it to the place where their bodies joined. He held it there while he rocked slowly up and down. Bodie’s other hand grasped Doyle’s cock and stroked with the same rhythm.

Doyle closed his eyes, and tried not to neglect any of the sensations. Maybe the rasp of Bodie’s hair was not quite as good as when Bodie was working behind him and the teasing touches were entirely under Bodie’s control. But that was a small loss when he had Bodie’s fingertips tracing the rim of his wide-stretched anus, almost shy, using a perfect, gentle pressure.

Bodie had brought his knees up, and Doyle leaned back against their support when his thighs or his cock ached too much.

He wanted Bodie to come first. As he rested he rubbed saliva-laden fingers around small, peaked nipples, squeezing them without warning, and tightened his muscles around the cock inside him. He studied the dim shape the other man’s face, unable to see his expression, reading what he could from the gleam of eyes and teeth, and the gaping mouth. The sudden tension told him, and the movement of Bodie’s balls beneath him. He pushed off, and rocked hard, and in the last thrusts Bodie took over, lifting him off the bed, and driving the breath from his body.

Head bowed, hands resting lightly on Bodie’s shoulders, he waited as the last pulses tugged at him, and then he quickly finished himself off.

He finally opened his eyes when he felt Bodie take hold of his hands, and then there was the warm pressure of lips against his knuckles.

Drifting asleep in a cradle of strong arms, his face still glowing from exposure to a furnace of kisses, he thought for the first time of love.

* * * * *

“How long are you going to be in Sussex for?”

“Surrey. Not sure. Could be a couple of days. Could be a couple of weeks.”

“When will you know?”

A shrug. Bodie had been flicking through the Sunday Times while they spoke. The idea that they might not meet for a fortnight or more didn’t seem to interest him. He saved his concentration and energy for the bedroom.

Doyle pushed his chair back and held the review section up, open wide at the theatre pages. He hadn’t been to a play in five years, and would be happy to leave it for another five.

“’d’you like me to write?”

Doyle shrugged in his turn, and then realised Bodie couldn’t see through newsprint. “Not going to have a lot to report on, are you, down in Surrey? ‘P.S. My cowshed’s the one with the cross over the door.’” The paper fought back when he tried to turn to the cinema reviews, and he subdued it with difficulty and much noise.

When Bodie next spoke his voice was muffled. He was in the kitchen, and his back was turned. “More coffee?”

“Please.”

* * * * *

During the shift, which was quiet even by the standards of a Sunday night, he wished several times that he _had_ asked for a letter. Not just for the contact it would give. He wanted to know what Bodie would say. How he would say it.

_A couple of paragraphs about the weather? “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”?_

_Or a discreet reference to Saturday morning? “I’ll try and get back to town some evening. When are you on leave?”?_

Could be either. Probably the first. Doyle himself had written many more letters like the first than like the second. When he wrote at all.

Either would be fine. He just wanted to know. _Next time he asks, I’ll say “Yes”._

On the Wednesday of the long weekly leave, Tennant invited him for a meal with his family, which he accepted. It was a pleasant, undemanding evening; start Alan and his wife Judy on the subject of the restaurant, and that was the next hour spoken for.

He put a good face on it when Tennant asked him about the Australian girl he was seeing. “Heard Gary” - Woods - “asking you about her the other day. Likely to turn serious, is it?” Tennant had always been tactless like that; Doyle guessed that the man’s own romantic history must have been breathtakingly uncomplicated.

“Nah. She’ll be going back to Australia soon anyway. She’s just here temping to earn the money to do some travelling in Africa.”

They asked more questions, not giving up hope. He elaborated on the description he’d given Woods (what he could remember of it), and named his creation Melanie. The sooner she bought her ticket to Nairobi the better.

Afterwards he lay in bed, knowing he shouldn’t have had those last two glasses of red wine. He wondered what Bodie was doing. What would Bodie make of Melanie? Would Bodie get in touch the instant he got back to London? How long would it be? He felt restless and irritable.

* * * * *

On Friday he finally found a flat, through popping into a local estate-agent’s at exactly the right time. He signed the lease and collected the keys immediately after end of shift on Saturday afternoon, and cleared out of the section house in record time.

The first thing he unpacked was his stereo, which he set up against the wall farthest away from the window, rather like Bodie’s, so that he had music to keep him company while he worked at finding places for everything else. It wasn’t difficult - the bedroom had an extraordinary amount of wardrobe-space.

The flat was nearly twice the size of Bodie’s, and probably half the age. It was on the second - the top - floor of a characterless block that was mostly square, but with a few odd projections. There was a patch of lawn at the front and sides, and a large car-park at the back. Nothing to charm and delight, but nothing missing, to irritate and inconvenience.

He’d known he wanted it from the moment he opened the door to the clean, freshly-painted stairwell that led to the front door of the flat. Maybe the architect had been over-generous with the corridor, shaped like an angular letter “b”, which turned to the right from the front door, running the full length of the flat, with a large lobby area off to the side. It deprived the main rooms of a good few square feet, but Doyle liked the fact that it had a window at the far end which brought light to the whole entrance area; without that, it might be a gloomy place to come home to.

There were just four rooms, but none was cramped. The bathroom and then the living room were on the left side of the corridor as you looked along it from the front door. The bathroom had no window, but the fan wasn’t too noisy - almost soothing, Doyle decided. The bedroom was opposite the living room, with the doors facing one another about ten feet from the end of the corridor. And the kitchen was next to the bedroom, on the far right of the flat, with the door opening off the lobby area.

The carpets were moss-green, the living-room walls cream, the bedroom walls an unobtrusive floral pattern, and the bathroom and kitchen brilliant white. There was a washing machine, there was central heating, there was a decent-sized fridge. Nothing to charm and delight, but nothing missing, to irritate and inconvenience. It felt like home almost immediately.

* * * * *

That first night he sat up in bed flanked by his wardrobes, aching pleasantly from all the shifting and carrying, and finishing off his third can of beer. On one level he felt good - a real sense of achievement and favourable fortune. On another ... lost ... or drifting. He shouldn’t have tried to ‘phone Bodie.

There’d been no reply, though he let it ring and ring. But that was what he’d hoped, wasn’t it? Bodie _hadn’t_ come back to London.

Maybe it was moving in here, imagining Bodie next to him in this bed ... He realised how little was settled between them. Bodie might never set foot inside the flat. It was possible.

It would be that every-day tragedy - the affair that barely happened. One side just ... has a change of mind, never to be changed back. Can’t be explained, any more than the initial attraction. Letters unanswered. Terse ‘phone-calls full of excuses. Happens every day.

_I’d camp outside his block. OK, so I said I wouldn’t, but that was weeks ago. I said I wouldn’t make a scene, but I would. I’d rant. I’d hunt him down in the pub. Not to get him back - I know it doesn’t happen like that - but to show him that he’s drowned something fragile and important, and that I’m mourning for the two of us._

_Yes, that’s what I’d do._

* * * * *

After work the next day he ‘phoned again, and again got no reply. He picked at his salad, a limp collection of Sunday-afternoon remnants, and thought about a change-of-address letter for Bodie. It would be the second since they’d come back to England. Would it have the same effect as the first? How many books about the Antarctic could a man _read_?

Best not to start it off? Just keep on ‘phoning? Wait for the section house to forward any mail?

And, once again, what would he say? What did he want to say? _“If you don’t give us a proper chance you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”_ Well, obviously he couldn’t say that. That would terrify anyone. What chance of managing a toned-down version? How much would Bodie be able to read into an address and rapturous descriptions of storage-space? Probably not much.

 _Don’t think my letters_ have _much between the lines. Hope not. Was thinking about ... carpets, last time. Don’t want him to know that._

 _It’s normal enough, though, isn’t it, what I was thinking? Don’t think he’d blame me. Maybe it’d even help him get things back in perspective. Things happened too quickly after Brija. Natural for him to have_ some _reaction. But he’ll get over it in time. Each time we’re in bed and we’re happy ... it must help, surely? He’s had no nightmares when he’s been with me, not here in London. That must be a good sign._

_I won’t let him know about the other nightmare. Thought about it at first, but - Didn’t give me an opening. He’ll tell me himself in his own good time. No point in pressuring him._

_You know, I think I’m over-reacting to him being away like this. We knew it would happen sometimes with his job and mine. It’s obvious we’re good together. Get snappy sometimes but who doesn’t? No way he’s going to turn down a chance of a repeat of Saturday morning. Way he fussed afterwards._ “Hmmn.” A reminiscent, smiling, exhalation.

* * * * *

He wrote on Monday afternoon and nipped out to post the letter as soon as it was finished. It turned out to cover several pages, one of the longest he could remember writing.

He’d got carried away in his enthusiasm for the flat, and had described it in detail, including a sketch of the floor-plan which showed every major item of furniture. He told Bodie how he’d rearranged the living room, putting the sofa and the TV on the side near the window, and the bookshelves, stereo and dining table on the other side. He told Bodie how he _wanted_ to rearrange the bedroom, but couldn’t because the fitted wardrobes left only one position for the bed - sticking out across the width of the room. He told Bodie that he was about to go out and rent a video recorder, though he wasn’t sure if his local place would deal with him again - they’d reclaimed their machine while he’d been in Africa. He even told Bodie to try and get back soon for his first tour of the property; that was the nearest he could get to “I’m missing you”.

* * * * *

Bodie’s reply arrived on Friday, which was Doyle’s weekly leave. It had been posted in London, apparently during a very brief visit to pick up some equipment. Bodie said he’d ‘phoned before writing, but it must have been a morning.

The letter made Doyle smile. Bodie had filled it with tales about the peculiarities of the CI5 flats. He said nothing about what was happening in Surrey, gave no hint of when he might be back. But he said he’d write again. And he said “I’m missing you”.

Doyle slid it carefully back into the envelope. His first letter from Bodie. He’d kept Ann’s letters - stored them in a box - then he’d thrown them away. This one already meant more than her whole collection ever had.

When he’d seen it on the mat, he hadn’t thought at first that it could be from Bodie, even though he’d been hoping for a letter - the hand-writing just wasn’t what he’d been expecting. He’d been waiting for a rushed, casual scrawl, not something rounded and careful. It reminded him of .... school, that was it. Had kids today even _heard_ of copperplate? Probably not. “Stifles creativity” - or some rubbish like that.

Doyle put the letter in the drawer of the bedside table, which was also fitted. It would probably be a week or so until the next letter. Anyone’s guess as to when he’d be in town again. He wished he could write back, but there’d been no address.

In the evening he was about to settle down with a bottle of wine and some rented videos when the ‘phone rang. It was Bodie, calling from his flat. Whatever had been happening in Surrey was finished.

“Yes, of course you can come over. Have you eaten?”

“Uh-huh. Starving.” As Doyle had expected. He’d been planning on a sandwich for himself, but he could do better than that, given the time it would take Bodie to change and get through the Friday-night traffic.

Bodie had changed as if for a night in the West End, not a quiet dinner in Kentish Town. He was freshly shaved and in a smart black suit. Doyle was quietly flattered. He’d never much noticed when girlfriends dressed up for an evening with him - as far as he was concerned, that was just what women _did_ \- but it was different when it was Bodie. Bodie had also brought another bottle from his stock of champagne.

“I see what you mean about the wardrobes.” They were standing in the doorway, the foot of the bed to their left.

“Yeah. There’s all that space by the window that’s practically blocked off. Just not _doing_ anything.”

“What do you _want_ to do with it?”

“Just fill it. I sit up in bed and all there is in front of me is empty space.”

“Bring an armchair in. Some of your bookcases.”

“Like a sort of lib’ry, you mean. Mmm.” A pause. “I could set the chair away from the bed, by the radiator. Be good in winter. Would you help me carry the stuff through?”

“Course.”

The armchair was a struggle. It had to be turned onto its side, and the route had some tricky corners - round the doors, and past the bed. When they finished, they were both sweating, and Bodie was no longer immaculate. Doyle sat on the bed, and then flopped onto his back. Bodie joined him, and they rolled into one another’s arms.

By the time they were dressed again, the chilli was ready. Doyle started the rice while Bodie opened the wine - they’d decided to leave the champagne for another time.

“I haven’t had a chilli this good in a long time.”

“Mmm. It’s a bit young still. Give me more notice and I’ll do one of my specials.”

“Can’t wait.”

After the meal they settled on the sofa with coffee and scotch, and Doyle demonstrated the video, smiling indulgently as Bodie discovered the comic effects of fast-forward and reverse, something he’d stopped noticing long ago.

“This is great. When did you first get one?”

A hiss though his teeth as he tried to remember. “Couple of years ago, I think. Thing that decided me was ‘The Good Life’. Kept on missing it when we were on lates, and it was driving me round the bend.”

“’The Good Life’? That back-to-nature thing? Doesn’t sound like you.”

“Ah, well ... I had a thing about Felicity Kendal.”

“Oh.”

“D’you want to watch a film? The place’s just round the corner if you don’t fancy either of these.”

“Um.” He stopped the tape, and turned towards Doyle. “I’d rather just catch up. It’s been a while. But if you want to ...?”

“No.” Doyle crossed the room and turned off the TV. “I’ll put a record on. Vivaldi OK?”

Bodie shrugged. Doyle put on “The Four Seasons” which was all the Vivaldi he had.

“Autumn” was halfway over when they moved from the sofa to the floor, and as it gave way to “Winter” they lay full-length on the carpet, and started shedding clothes. Bodie was naked first. Suddenly Doyle paused, holding the hands away from his flies, and propped himself up on an elbow.

“Bodie?” He was frowning, apparently in puzzled concentration. “Would you say we were dating?”

“Eh?”

“You know. Dating. Going out. Keeping company. Are we? You and me?”

“You do this with people you’re _not_ dating?”

“So we are?”

Bodie was frowning as well now. “You’re my lover. That’s how _I_ see it. Dunno about ... ‘dating’. Why?”

“Oh. No reason.” Doyle was smiling now, forehead smoothed.

Bodie studied him carefully, and then smiled back. He raised his hand to run a finger lightly along Doyle’s lower lip; the finger was swiftly sucked in, to be licked and bitten.

Suddenly they were both breathing heavily. Doyle drew away, releasing the finger, and knelt back on his heels, surveying the length of Bodie’s body while his hands fumbled with the flies on his tight jeans. He didn’t take them off, though, just eased the worst of the pressure.

“Open your legs.”

Bodie obeyed immediately, lifting his knees and spreading his thighs wide. The temperature inside his cock surged upwards, at the memory of the last time Ray had been like this. And it was all so similar. Doyle was kneeling between his legs, staring at him, face flushed, mouth open.

Bodie waited.

“Your hair is _so_ black here. And the rest of you’s so white.” The fingers were exploring again. Teasing. “It makes it _impossible_ not to look at your cock. Not to want it.”

“Ray. Please.”

Doyle flicked a glance at the tense face, then he leant forward, mouth opening further. He made no attempt to suck, just surrounded the head with heat and moisture, and circled it slowly with his tongue.

Bodie arched his back, and his hands tried to grip the carpet. A lean hand was still stroking through his pubic hair. Gradually, it moved downwards, over and around his balls, between his spread legs. Though the path was inevitable, really, he grunted in surprise at the cool touch on his anus, and his legs closed tight about Doyle’s ribs.

He was more surprised, though, at how quickly Doyle released him, and at the guilty expression.

“Ray? Don’t stop.” He stretched and smiled. “Was good.”

Doyle frowned at him. “You said it gave you nightmares.”

“Being fucked, I said. Not -“ He lifted his knees right up to his chest, and reached down to touch himself. “Not that.”

Doyle groaned, a painful sound, pushed his jeans down his thighs, and cupped his balls in an effort to placate them.

“Come on, Ray. If you want to.” The hand had been lifted away, but the knees were still lifted high, and the bud of muscle plainly visible.

“I want - You _know_ what I _want_.” Doyle was curled away, not meeting his eyes.

“But you can’t. I wish you could, but it just won’t work. I thought you’d accepted that.”

Doyle just nodded, face still averted.

“But you can touch me wherever you want, you know. Even put your finger in. I wanted you to just now. Was waiting for it.”

Doyle jerked round. “No, you weren’t. You tried to push me away. You’re terrified of anything like that. I should have known better. I’m sorry. It _won’t_ happen again.”

“I wasn’t terrified. I was just surprised. Can’t remember the last time anyone touched me there.”

“Then how d’you know it’ll be OK, if you’re not used to it? You’re just guessing. How d’you know you won’t start screaming halfway through?”

“Instinct, Ray. Look.” As Doyle watched, he wet his middle finger in his mouth, and reached between his legs again. Saliva started pumping into Doyle’s mouth. He’d had no idea desire could feel like this. “You see. It’s fine. But I’d rather it was you. Please.”

Helpless, Doyle bent forward, and licked hungrily at what he could reach of the joined flesh. He gnawed at Bodie’s knuckles, leaving teeth-marks that took minutes to fade. Equally helpless, Bodie rolled his head against the carpet, and uttered wordless cries.

Finally, Doyle felt a warning tightness in his balls, and drew back, panting, face glistening with sweat. “Gotta calm down ... Over too soon. Wanna ...” Gasps. “Let’s go to bed.” He stood up, and kicked his jeans off.

Bodie lay still for many seconds. Doyle didn’t dare look at him. Then he rolled to his side and clambered to his feet. Very gently, he turned Doyle to face him, and pulled him into a kiss. Then, “Yes. Bed.”

A few minutes later they were between the cool sheets, deep in another kiss. When Doyle felt fully under control, he pushed Bodie back, and sat up, throwing the duvet to the bottom of the bed. He’d bought some K-Y earlier on in the day - it was with Bodie’s letter in the bedside cabinet. As he fetched it, Bodie raised his knees again.

His finger slid in easily. The grip of the muscles was fierce, but not fighting him. Bodie gave a long, long sigh, then raised his head, wanting to see what Ray’s hand _looked_ like, when it felt so hard and cold and strange. But it looked as it always had.

“You OK?”

“Course. Told you - instinct.”

Doyle pushed in as far as he could go. The smooth walls of the rectum felt marvellous. He knew the involuntary rhythmic squeeze was trying to push him out, but it felt so good - it just made him want to stay forever. No, that wasn’t quite honest. It made him want to push his cock in, instead of his finger.

He started to withdraw, trying to think of a neutral excuse to call a halt. But then Bodie gave a broken groan of unmistakeable pleasure, and he changed his mind. Maybe ... maybe Bodie was nearly over his nightmares. He just didn’t realise it. But make this good enough, and he’d soon be wanting to try again.

Several long thrusts, gaining in confidence. _He loves it. Oh god, he loves it._

Bodie grasped his own cock, but didn’t stroke himself, content just with a firm grip. He grunted in complaint when the finger slid out, and opened his eyes to frown at Doyle.

Doyle said nothing, just let him watch the gel being squeezed onto the middle and index fingers. He nodded and lay back again, lifting his knees even farther apart.

With two fingers, Doyle could twist and scissor, getting reactions he wouldn’t have believed. _Tonight. Christ, it might even be tonight. Should I wait till he begs, to be sure?_ His cock could wait. For this, it would wait until dawn.

He worked with the fingers for a minute or so, sharing his avid gaze between Bodie’s arse, cock, and face. Then he slid out again, and slid in straight away with three - there was enough gel in there to last a fortnight. A quick check to confirm that Bodie was as excited as he.

Frozen. Silent. Head turned towards the armchair.

“It’s hurting?” His voice was shaking.

The eyes closed, and the head turned further into the pillow.

Doyle pulled out as carefully as he knew how and wiped his fingers on his thigh. Bodie’s legs were still raised, so Doyle eased them down, and then pulled the duvet up. He was covered in sweat, heart racing, but he was cold, so cold.

Bodie hadn’t moved. Doyle didn’t know what was best for him. He stretched out, leaving some inches between them, and stroked his arm, and then his hair.

Finally, Bodie sighed, and rolled over onto his side. He looked tired.

“I’m sorry, Ray.”

“No, _I’m_ sorry. _So_ sorry.” A pause. “Did I hurt you very badly?”

Bodie shook his head. “It didn’t hurt exactly. It was more of a ... a ...” He swallowed. “... a stretching. I’m sorry. I didn’t know it would be like that. I just couldn’t help it.” He reached out, and they clung together.

“I shouldn’t have started it,” Doyle whispered. “It was stupid.”

“Then we’re _both_ stupid. I wanted it too, remember. And until ... then, it was fantastic. I’m glad you started it. I’d like more, sometime.”

Doyle hid his face, not wanting Bodie to see his dismay. He didn’t know if he could do it again. What if it got worse each time? He’d always be frightened, waiting for the moment when Bodie’s expression would change to something unbearable.

“Don’t worry so much, Ray.” Very gentle. “It wasn’t so bad, even then. Just took me by surprise. Forget about it, eh? Like this?” He started to coax Doyle’s wilted erection back to its former glory, first with his hand, and then with his mouth.

Doyle lay and watched him, still too shaken to know _what_ he wanted, though his cock seemed to be making decisions of its own. Things were going to be even more complicated than he’d thought. He didn’t blame Bodie, though. Christ! How could he?

_Look at him now. Surely no one else can have seen him this gentle, this serious and concerned. If they had ... How could they possibly bear to let him go? He saved this ... all for me._

He placed his hand on the back of Bodie’s neck, followed the curve until he could feel the pulse against his fingertips. It was strong, like everything about Bodie, but for once, Bodie seemed very fragile to him. He’d started to take him for granted since they’d arrived in London, forgetting - until now - how little reason Bodie had to be gentle to anyone.

_He’s worked so hard to get himself this far. I want to take over for him, want to thank him for staying alive and sane and healthy. I think ... I think I’d love him, whatever, but I’m so glad he’s like this._

He’d never been good at thank-yous, though, or goodbyes or anything like that. They made him feel stupid and self-conscious. He always tried to say these things indirectly.

Bodie raised his head when his hair was tugged. Doyle turned the demand into a caress. “Careful you don’t make me come like that. I want you to fuck me. I want it like that.”

Dishonest to think of it as a thank-you, as a favour to Bodie, when Bodie immediately added to the gift and returned it. Bodie knew his body so well by now, missed nothing out in bringing him to a state of blissful relaxation and eagerness. Doyle was so happy, showed it readily in his easy smile, and in his lazy demand for a kiss before he turned onto his stomach.

Bodie stared down at him, beyond anything as simple as a smile. He thought that this was possibly Ray at his most beautiful. He prayed that he would never take him for granted, would always know how immensely lucky he was to be able to see him like this - brown and supple, and content as a nymph stretching in the sun on a mountainside, wondering what gods would walk by.

When he was fully inserted, he stretched out along Ray’s back, wanting to savour the feeling of belonging, which was strongest when they were still like this, their two heartbeats jerking at every point where their bodies touched. He felt as if he’d seen Doyle’s heart, held it in his hands. Right now, it beat for _him_ , he knew that.

He kissed Ray’s neck and saw the cheek bunch in a smile, though the mouth was hidden.

 _“I don’t deserve you.”_ His lips formed the words against his lover’s skin, but they were soundless, and were taken as more kisses. _“I don’t deserve you.”_ Of course he didn’t. After all he’d done to Ray. After the way they’d started. Even without all that, it must be a mistake that he was here: so beautiful, so intelligent, so confident. A mistake, or a present from the gods.

If it was a present ...? He hadn’t realised at first, had been so casual and ungrateful that it frightened him to think about it. But now ... He’d been thoroughly trained in manners - about all that his mother had bothered to teach him - and he knew very well what might happen to a gift if you weren’t properly appreciative.

“I love you, Ray.” Another kiss to the exquisite line of the neck.

Doyle gasped and turned his head, but all he could see was an arm.

To Bodie, the gasp had sounded like shock. _Did he think this was just sex? Is that all he wants? No. Can’t be. All that about ... “dating”. But if it’s such a surprise to him ...? Couldn’t he tell how precious he is to me?_

Bodie set out to show him, worshipping face, neck and shoulders with teeth and tongue, finally saying what he’d thought too obvious to need words. “I love you”. “You’re beautiful”. “You’re perfect, Ray.”

Doyle said nothing. Instead, he raised his hips, and tightened his muscles around Bodie. After three such backwards thrusts, Bodie could stay still no longer. He grasped Doyle’s cock, and led them both to a quick, noisy, and delightful end.

They lay on their backs, touching, but not holding. Outside, the sky was as black as it ever got in London.

“Those bookcases and the chair make all the difference. It feels like another room.”

“Hmm. I’ve missed my vocation. Should move to Chelsea and take up interior design.” He felt the whole length of Doyle’s body shake with contained laughter. It wasn’t _that_ funny. He felt for a long-fingered hand and laced their fingers together, finally smiling when Doyle squeezed back. “You OK?”

Doyle turned his head, kissed the curve of a bicep. “How could you doubt it?”

“With you? Easy. Don’t say much, do you, sweetheart?”

Their eyes met. “Not my style. Lean and moody, that’s me. You’re sunny enough for the two of us.” Brief pause. Twitch of the lips. “Darling.”

“So I’m not allowed to call you ‘sweetheart’.” The beginnings of a pout.

“Call me what you like. ‘s better than ‘Ginger’ or ‘copperknob’, I suppose.” He rubbed his stubble against Bodie’s arm, intending affection and an apology.

Bodie sat up to pull the duvet over them, and when he lay down again, it was on his side. Doyle rolled into his arms. “Sweetheart.” A fierce whisper. _Well, I could get used to it. I could get addicted to it._

Minutes of silence except for sliding hands, and traffic noise.

Suddenly: “Bodie, while we’re on the subject of names ...” A soft groan. Doyle continued, regardless. “... what’s yours? Your Christian name, I mean.”

A long pause. “Well. You’d better know the worst. What do you make of ‘William Andrew Philip Bodie’?”

“Strewth. ‘s more than Prince Charles. Have delusions of grandeur, did they?”

“Huh.” It sounded like agreement.

 “Who calls you that?”

“No one.”

“Never? They called you ‘Bodie’ in your pram?”

A resigned sigh. “Dad called me ‘William’.” Doyle was surprised at the easy tone. “Stepfather used to call me ‘Bill’. It was his idea of being friendly.” Maybe it had been the stepfather. It shouldn’t make any difference, but ... it _did_ seem less horrible like that.

“What was he like? Your stepfather?”

“Fine.” As if he’d never thought about it. “Tried to be friendly, like I said.”

“How’d he get on with Ginger?”

“Uhn. Missed her by a couple of years.”

“Oh.” Not the stepfather, then. “I like ‘William’. Read all the books when I was a kid. What if I -“

“Don’t.”

Somehow he’d been expecting that. “OK.” The subject was closed.

* * * * *

“What time are you coming round tonight?”

“What time will you be back?”

“’bout ten fifteen.”

“I’ll be waiting in the car park.”

“You can stay here all day, if you like. I’ll leave you the keys.”

A shake of the head. “I haven’t been home in weeks. Got some things to sort out.”

“D’you want to take the keys anyway? Make yourself copies?”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. I’d love to come home and find you here with dinner all ready.” He was grinning.

“Hah. Well, if you’re _happy_ with frozen pizza ...”

“Once in a while, yeah. Go on.” He worked at the bunch of keys and freed the two to the flat. Bodie took them.

* * * * *

It was a tasty pizza, and Bodie had made a decent salad and chilled the champagne. They sat up late watching the two films on video - _Must remember to take them back_ \- crowded together in a corner of the sofa. A lot of the second one was wasted on a distracted audience.

“Same thing tomorrow? I mean, this evening,” Doyle asked as they lay together after putting the bed through its paces.

“Not so late, maybe. I’m working next week. Have to be up Monday morning.”

“Nine to five?”

“Ahh. Twenty-four-hour guard duty.”

“All week? How long have you known about this?”

“Umm.”

“I see. I wish you wouldn’t spring these things on me.” The way he remembered it, Bodie had given him five minutes notice before rushing off to Surrey.

“I’m sorry. I’m not used to ... fitting in with someone else.”

Doyle nodded. “Will you write?”

“Course. Every day.”

Doyle humphed sceptically, but he was secretly pleased. “I’ll miss you. How long will it be this time? D’you know?”

“A fortnight. Straight through till the Friday.”

“God.” He thought it through, then brightened. “That’s just at the start of my long leave. We can make a weekend of it anyway.”

* * * * *

Bodie _did_ write every day, and Doyle kept all of the letters. The very sight of Bodie’s hand-writing came to fill him with warmth. Not that the letters would satisfy Barbara Cartland as love-letters. Some of them were just notes on postcards sealed in envelopes.

They described life in the high-security suite without mentioning who, besides CI5, was inside it, or even which hotel it was in. They gave reviews of every film on the hotel video service, including the porn, and character assassinations of most of CI5’s agents. And they all told him that he was loved.

He wanted to write back, but of course there was no address. In dull moments on the beat he found himself conducting a mental commentary with Bodie in mind, phrasing his descriptions in ways that he knew would make the man laugh. It was a long fortnight. He re-read the letters many times.

They finally met again on the Friday night, a week into July. Very early on Saturday morning, Doyle told Bodie that he loved him, and found that heartfelt joy was an expression that made a classical sculpture of Bodie’s face.

* * * * *

After that return, Bodie was in London, working civilised hours, almost continuously, and they finally had a chance to establish a pattern for themselves. They spent most of their time at Doyle’s flat since they both had the keys, and Bodie’s flat was saved for weekly leaves.

In the middle of July, Doyle started his duty in the area car, which meant that he and Terry West, his radio operator, changed shifts an hour later than the rest of the relief, supposedly to keep cover on the streets during the main change-over.

He couldn’t decide which was worse: lates, or nights.

During weekday lates he wouldn’t get home until after eleven, and then Bodie would be up at seven to go to work. Impossible - except that Bodie (at his own suggestion) caught some sleep during the evenings, and they would sit up together into the night, drinking beer and listening their way through Doyle’s music collection. To Doyle’s surprise, out of the whole lot, Bodie had latched onto Janacek’s “Sinfonietta”, though he always referred to it as “the ‘Crown Court’ music”; once or twice he’d been caught conducting away to it while Doyle was out of the room.

And nights ... well, by the time Bodie had made his way through the rush hour, it was nearly time for Doyle to leave for the station. After a few failures Doyle declared that it was a waste of time, and they took to meeting in the West End instead - occasionally at CI5, or spending the night apart. Sometimes, though, they’d decided not to meet, but he’d come home and found Bodie asleep in his bed. Standing in the doorway looking down at the curled figure, he felt as if his viscera had turned to candy-floss, his bones to embers.

So, even lates and nights had their good moments. But earlies were the best without question, when they had the whole evening and night to themselves. However long they had, it was never enough.

* * * * *

Terry West didn’t know Doyle well enough to be struck by his calm, consistent temper, and probably wouldn’t have bothered commenting in any case. He’d heard about Melanie from Woods, and asked after her a few times, but with no great interest. Doyle had almost no interest at all in any human being other than Bodie (and the civilians he was paid to take care of), so he never followed up West’s various hints, and never found out how much he was missing his girlfriend Barbara while she was working in Manchester during the long summer break from her physiotherapy course. He just grunted whenever Terry mentioned the possibility of a double date - “Won’t be till October, mind” - so Terry brooded in silence.

Doyle brooded too, sometimes, though he hid it.

By mid-October, when he changed back to the beat, he had almost forgotten that he’d ever felt optimistic about Bodie’s nightmares. That optimism had belonged to the early days, when they spent more nights apart than they did together. Even now, he didn’t know just how frequent the dreams were.

When Bodie had first told him about the new nightmares, he’d felt guilt, and pity, but no fear. They’d get through them together. Maybe it would even bring them closer. Like the nightmare in the desert - terrible, but leaving them entwined in a strange, exhausted peace.

They were not like that at all.

In some ways, they got easier with time - less spectacular, anyway. The first few had been just as explicit as the one in the desert, and Doyle had been slow to wake, and the nightmare had progressed so far that it had taken several minutes to lead Bodie out of it. Those minutes were enough to show Doyle that all the nightmares were different. His imagination pleaded for mercy, and he became a light sleeper, able to jerk awake at almost any sound from Bodie. There was always a time of transition when Bodie fought to get away from him, but these days the time was short.

In other ways, the nightmares got more and more painful for Doyle. There was no sign at all of any real change or easing, no pattern. And Bodie shunned all comfort. Almost, he acted as if they didn’t happen, as if they were none of Doyle’s business. The first few times he’d muttered an apology for waking Doyle up, but he soon stopped even that.

And any hope that he might talk it through ... Doyle had tried, once, near the beginning, but had given up after a few halting sentences. He’d always thought he had a fair measure of courage: it was enough for facing a six-footer with a knife, but when Bodie pulled away and turned his back ... The words died in his lungs.

That time he’d known that the turned back was punishment. But the times since then? Reproach? Rejection? He’d wonder through sleepless hours what he’d done wrong. And those rare times when Bodie would stay in his arms, what then did he do right? What _could_ he do, except murmur “I love you. I love you,” over and over? He had nothing else to give.

* * * * *

In the daylight, it was strangely easy to forget it all, and yawns from lost sleep were usually the only reminder. He didn’t know what it meant, that such a horror should be so neatly contained.

Maybe it meant that ignoring the dreams and their foundation was the only thing to do. Could any love face such monsters and survive? Was that what Bodie was doing when he turned his back? Forcing him to accept that? Because Bodie must surely realise that Doyle knew what the nightmares were about. It was obvious, even without that first one in the desert.

He fantasised sometimes about confronting Bodie - a different Bodie, carrying only a fraction of his Bodie’s pain - and discussing, calmly, the best way of coping. Safe enough, because by that time he had plenty of experience of keeping his fantasies well under control.

Sometimes it seemed obvious why the hours of nightmare didn’t taint their surroundings. The hours were like rats cowering in a small, dark hole, while a lion roared and paced outside. The good times were so good, like an irresistible force. They pushed back everything else.

The good times were also a gift, as Doyle was keenly aware. He couldn’t put a value on it. His life? His soul? Trivial in comparison.

And who was the giver? Doyle, an agnostic if anyone asked, found signs everywhere of the touch of a benevolent god. How else could you explain the way that he and Bodie had been preserved for each other, fitted to each other?

He could see - so clearly - their two lives marked out as a heat-trace against the darkness. All inevitable. And the past - all preparation. The trails of light burned beneath his closed eyelids, incandescent curves racing towards that meeting in a tent in the desert. And when they joined? A blinding fire-ball that filled the world, reaching every destination simultaneously.

Considering the strength of his feelings, he hid them well, always aware, on some level, of what discovery could do to the two of them, though with the assumption, on a deeper level, that soon enough the world would change to accept and welcome them. Meanwhile, the thought of the secret they shared excited Doyle sometimes. And sometimes it frustrated and depressed him - the depression coming when he showed his frustration to Bodie, and Bodie lectured him.

Bodie’s feelings were just as strong, if measurements mean anything in this range of the spectrum, but he was aware of no effort in hiding them. He had years of experience at training his face to conceal any emotion, positive or negative. And the secret was simply a necessity, so frustration would be pointless. He was making no assumptions, on any level, about the future. The present was giving him more than he had ever hoped for.


	6. Heat-Trace - Chapter 4

## Chapter 4

By late November they had been together for over eight months. Eight (mostly) excellent months.

They were no longer making daily discoveries about one another. Frequently one would finish a sentence that the other had started. But increased familiarity didn’t bring any hint of boredom, in bed or out of it, just a desire for more. Doyle, for one, was looking forward to Christmas as a chance to satisfy Bodie’s tastes and needs, especially those tastes Bodie didn’t yet know he had.

Maybe, also, the nightmares were finally getting less frequent. Doyle saw only one in the whole month of November. He tried not to get his hopes up. And any hopes he did have were largely for Bodie’s sake. He could cope with things the way they were. Hell, he was thriving.

* * * * *

“Close Encounters of the Third Kind” had just opened in Leicester Square, to unignorable publicity. Doyle had a long leave - all midweek - and they’d decided on the Wednesday as the day to get it over with. Bodie was looking forward to it the most - he was hoping for something on the same lines as “Jaws” but less tame.

When Doyle reported to HQ to collect Bodie, the man on the security desk greeted him by name, and he smiled crookedly, resigned to his position as a CI5 groupie.

Murphy said, “We’re trying out the ‘Lamb and Flag’ these days.” No longer a guest, he didn’t receive a formal invitation, and was expected to introduce himself into the stream as it meandered down the side-streets.

The shop-talk and gossip washed around him. He knew enough about the squad to understand what was being discussed without requiring a simultaneous translation by Bodie or Murphy, but he had nothing to contribute. He and Murphy were standing slightly apart from the main group, talking about TV cops, when Lucas called to him.

“Hey, Ray, have you figured out what this sod’s secret is?” His pint was raised in Bodie’s direction.

“What secret?” Curious and smiling.

“Why he’s such a hit with the birds. It’s a complete mystery to us, but he does it every time.”

“Eh?”

“See,” Lucas said to the room, “he won’t even give Ray any tips. It’s selfish, Bodie. Very selfish.”

“Nah,” contributed Petrie, “it’s all talk, isn’t it? That bird in Richmond last week when we were doing the house-to-house, yeah, all right, she gave him the eye when she answered the door, but we’ve only got his word for it that she came across when he went back.”

McCabe joined in. “No, OK, I wouldn’t put money on that one. But what about that little typist who was on loan the other month, and that German girl before that? They were all over him. You’ve got to give him those.”

Bodie was looking superior and exasperated, and anywhere except at Doyle. Doyle’s blink-rate had increased slightly, but that was it. So far he just didn’t believe what he was hearing.

But that was just the beginning, especially for Lucas.

“You stick with him, Ray. If you’re lucky you’ll figure out what his technique is. Write a book. Make a fortune.”

“Maybe it’s just his good looks and boyish charm.” Apparently the funniest thing Doyle had ever said. His audience fell about laughing. Lucas was the first to recover.

“Nah, he’s got some sort of miracle Chick Magnet. Tell you what though, we thought he’d lost it when he was in Africa, got it buried under a sand-dune or something, ‘cos he was definitely off form when he came back. Wasn’t he, Mac?”

“Certainly was. We like to keep track, you know. For when the Guinness Book of Records calls for an update. By my reckoning there was a good two months gap when he got back. We were worried. Great relief when young Ruth put a stop to that. July, wasn’t it? Just before she got sent to the States for that training course?”

Vigorous nods. No one seemed to notice that the two main targets of this prolonged joke were not finding it amusing. Doyle’s teeth were showing, but it would take little imagination to describe it as a snarl rather than a smile. Bodie was a study in boredom. Lucas didn’t see, or didn’t care.

“I’ve just thought. You were in Africa with him, weren’t you, Ray? What happened to make him lose his touch with the birds? Must have been something pretty drastic.”

Doyle revealed more of his teeth, looking at Bodie, not at Lucas.

“Well, you know, he had a whole caravan of slaves over there. I think he just got spoilt. I think he lost the knack of asking nicely.”

Bodie finally met Doyle’s eyes. His mouth gave a fractional twitch, which was intended as a plea for trust and forgiveness, but to Doyle just looked like an admission of guilt - a smug one at that.

Doyle waited for the sniggers and indecent suggestions to die down, then drained his glass rapidly and said briskly, “Well, we’d better get going, mate, or we’ll miss the coming-shortlies, and you wouldn’t want that, would you?”

The other man shook his head, and finished the remainder of his pint in one mouthful.

* * * * *

They stopped outside the door of the pub, and faced one another.

“You’re a better liar than I thought, Bodie.”

Several beats of silence. A deep breath. “It’s not the way it -“

“Oh. All the best clichés. You’ve had practice at this, haven’t you?”

“Oh, Ray, _please_ ...” Another plea, which Doyle took as man-of-the-world impatience.

“No, I’m _not_ going to be _broad-minded_ , or whatever the line is these days. Jesus -“

“Not here, Ray. Come on. Leave it till we get home. Please.”

“Home! You -“

“My place. ‘s nearest. Got room enough for you to take a swing at me.”

Doyle glared at him, breathing hard, then nodded, and turned to walk back to HQ and his car.

As soon as they reached the flat Bodie disappeared into the kitchen and came out with a large scotch and a gin-and-tonic. He put the gin-and-tonic on the window-sill near Doyle’s elbow. Let him pick it up or not. Handing it to him directly would only have given him an excuse to throw the glass across the room.

They stayed by the window, standing on opposite sides of the dining-table, and for a while there was silence. Bodie sipped his drink and looked down into the street.

“So. How many of us have you been juggling then?”

“It _isn’t_ the way it looks, Ray.”

“So you said. That means you haven’t been sleeping with any women, does it? The lads have got it all wrong, and you’ve just been chatting these birds up to swap recipes, or something?”

Bodie was shaking his head, attention still given to the building opposite.

“What does _that_ mean? You haven’t been sleeping with women, or the lads haven’t got it all wrong?”

Finally he turned to look at Doyle. “Yes, OK, I’ve slept with a few women, but -“

“How _many_?” Words spat out.

“Oh.” Sigh and shrug. “Dunno. Four or five, but -“

“Welcome change, was it?”

Bodie shook his head sharply. “ _No_.” He took a deep breath, but Doyle would not let him speak.

“Oh? That makes it worse, you know. If you can’t turn down any fuck - even a _bad_ one. Jesus. I _knew_ you were stupid but this is incredible. We had something good going, and you’ve trashed it just like that. Give me my keys back. Now.”

“What?”

“The keys to my flat. It’s over.”

Bodie was just shaking his head, over and over, his mouth hanging open.

“Fine. I’ll get them myself.” He crossed the room, picked up Bodie’s jacket from the back of the sofa, and started feeling in the pockets.

Bodie leapt after him, knocking over a dining-chair in his rush, and snatched the jacket from Doyle’s hands. “You can’t.”

“Watch me.” He tugged at the jacket, knowing he had no chance against Bodie’s strength but eager for the fight.

Bodie tightened the grip of his arms. “Listen to me, for God’s sake. Why can’t you trust me? Course I wouldn’t fuck around just for the sake of it. Couldn’t you tell from the way Lucas was going on? I did it for us. All that with the birds. _Had_ to.”

“Now that _is_ a new one. Take my advice - work on it a bit before you try it on someone else. OK. You won’t give me the keys, I’ll get my locks changed.”

Bodie blocked the gap by the sofa, so he took the route through the bedroom instead. But Bodie reached the front door before him.

“Out of my way, you bastard.”

“ _Listen_ to me first. Look, I know I’ve handled this badly, but ...” A frustrated sigh. “There’s no _way_ I’d risk screwing up what I’ve got with you. Not for anything. I didn’t do it because I _wanted_ to. I did it because I _had_ to. For _us_.”

Doyle stared at him, wondering what was the best tactic for clearing a path to the door. Get him off guard, maybe. He stepped back and leaned against the bathroom door, arms folded. “You’ve got me intrigued. Go on and tell me how you worked _that_ out.”

Bodie’s voice was quiet. “When Lucas says ‘Guinness Book of Records’ he means Internal Security. I’m sure he’s with them. There’s always a couple in the squad. I just had to shut him up. I couldn’t think of anything else to do. I meant to tell you but -“ He swallowed. “Just never found the right time.”

“You thought it was better for me to find out like this? D’you know how close I came to glassing you in the pub? What would your bloody Internal Security make of that?”

“I’m sorry.”

“You just don’t think things through, do you? Only deal with what’s right in front of your nose.”

Bodie closed his eyes, and his arms fell by his side, the jacket drooping to the floor. “All I could think was ... you’d be _so_ angry. I couldn’t face it.”

Doyle could have made a dash for it, but he didn’t. When Bodie looked defeated like that ... Mostly he wanted to hit him still, but that would be as the start of a long punishment, rather than as a satisfying exit.

“How many has it been, then?” His tone was resigned.

Bodie met his eyes. “Five. Lads think it’s more than that. And I never did it - fucked her - unless I was _positive_ it would be worth it. I mean, only if Lucas was practically in the bedroom. Never ...” He shook his head. “... just for the sake of it, you know. Like - the bird in Richmond, I didn’t even go back to her flat. Just told Taylor that I was going to give it a try. It works. You could see it works.”

“It stinks.”

“I know. But it’s necessary. You can see that, can’t you?”

Doyle didn’t answer. He pushed himself upright and walked past Bodie into the sitting room, and there made his way to his untouched drink. Bodie joined him slowly and picked up the fallen chair. They both sat down at the table.

Finally: “Are you going to carry on doing this?”

“I have to. Too dangerous to do anything else.”

Long silence.

“I don’t know if I can cope with it.”

“Nothing to cope with. The only person I _want_ is you. Don’t think about it.”

“I can’t ‘not think’. That’s your area. And about something like _this_ -“ He broke off.

His breathing grew rougher as he stared unblinking at Bodie, and soon his lips pulled back from his teeth.

“ _I_ say what you do with your cock. You’re _mine_.” He blinked afterwards, surprised at himself, and took a mouthful of warm gin and tonic.

Bodie just nodded. “I know.”

“In future, you ...”

“... I’ll ask your permission. I’m sorry.”

Doyle looked down at his glass, and pushed the lemon around in a circle. Suddenly he got up and went to the refrigerator, and spent a minute or so wrestling with the ice-tray. He paused in the doorway, then veered left towards the sofa. He sat down heavily and propped his feet on the coffee table.

Bodie spoke behind him. “D’you want something to eat?”

“No.”

He could sense the warmth of Bodie’s hand, resting on the back of the sofa, inches from his head. _If he tries to touch me ..._

“Shall I put a record on?”

Shrug. “If you want.”

Bodie spent some time looking through the row of albums, but in the end selected nothing, and turned to face the sofa.

“Can I sit down?”

“’s your flat.”

He perched on the edge of the coffee table, next to Doyle’s feet. Doyle sipped at his drink.

“Ray?”

“Hnn?”

“You might have to do the same, you know.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You _might_. Think about it. You’ve had to come up with Melanie already, haven’t you? That won’t always be enough. You could get caught out. _Badly_. We can’t afford it.”

“’s only the force, for Christ’s sake. We’re not as paranoid as CI5.”

“Oh? You’ll be Copper of the Year when it gets out, will you? OK, so it’s not as bad, but that only means that they’ve given you longer than they did me. It won’t last forever. You’ve gotta find a bird. Sooner the better.”

“Jesus. You’re the soul of romance, aren’t you? Really know how to make me feel great.”

“ _Think_ about it, Ray. Please. For both our sakes.”

Doyle looked at him, eyebrows raised, and then returned his attention to his drink. Bodie studied him in silence for long minutes.

Finally Doyle raised his head again, and they looked at one another.

“D’you want to go and see the film?” Bodie glanced at his watch. “We could still make it, easily.”

“Not in the mood. Wouldn’t be able to concentrate.”

“Something else, then?”

Doyle sighed and frowned at the ceiling, making a show of thinking. He knew what he _wanted_ to do - he wanted to fuck Bodie through the carpet, to state his claim in a manner neither could mistake. Every nerve and drop of blood was telling him to do it, while his mind shouted them down, and his heart insisted that Bodie must never suspect that the argument was even taking place. Sitting still for two hours in a cinema would be quite impossible.

The safest thing would be to away from him for a while - until the danger was over - but he didn’t want to let him out of sight.

What could they do, though, stuck in the flat? Bodie had had the right idea: they needed a change of pace, a change of scene to diffuse the tension.

“Game of squash?”

“Yeah. Good idea.”

“Will we find a court, though, this time of night?”

“I’ll check.” Bodie reached over for the ‘phone, and had a brief conversation. “I’ve booked us for nine thirty. That’ll give us time to call in at your place and collect your gear.”

“We’re going to St. Albans?”

“’s that OK?”

Brief nod.

* * * * *

It was an impressive club, full of conspicuously fit young men. Bodie nodded briskly at some faces in the background, but kept his distance, much to Doyle’s relief.

Doyle won narrowly and knew he could have done better. Aggression had messed up his judgement, and he’d wasted energy on hopeless causes, which had told towards the end. Still, he _had_ won, and he was much less tense - Bodie would be safe that night.

However, the sexual imperative had only been gentled, not exhausted, and he kept his eyes firmly on his flannel and on his locker in the changing rooms, which were still crowded, even at half past ten. But he could smell Bodie next to him: a waft of sweat as the airtex top was stuffed into the holdall; a blend of tar and pine from his hair. It would be a long journey home.

“Drink?” They were just outside the door of the changing room.

Doyle made a face but said nothing.

“Don’t you like it here?” The concern of the host.

Doyle smiled and shook his head. “Out of my league, that’s all. D’ _you_ want a drink?”

Quietly, “I’d rather just go home.”

Just as quietly, “Where’s home?” Raised eyebrows.

“Your place.”

A nod. “Come on.”

Doyle drove them back to Kentish Town. They talked about the match, about squash, about the club. It wasn’t often they arrived at the flat together like this, as if they lived together, as if this was a regular end to a long day.

Neither had eaten since lunchtime so they had a quick sandwich and then got ready for bed. While Bodie waited under the covers, Doyle moved around putting things away and turning out lights. Bodie held back the covers for him, but he shook his head, walked round the bed to the armchair, and picked up Bodie’s jacket. There was a jangle of metal.

“What would you have done if I’d taken these? Earlier on.”

Bodie couldn’t see Doyle’s expression clearly. He had no idea what was wanted, so he said simply, very quietly, “I don’t know.”

Doyle had meant to go on and ask Bodie if he would do the wild things that he himself had planned while Bodie was away in Surrey: staking out his flat, cornering him in the pub. But Bodie seemed so unprepared for the idea, it wouldn’t be fair. He stayed still for nearly a minute, just watching the serious face in the circle of lamplight, then dropped the bunch of keys on the seat of the chair, and went to stand by the bed.

Bodie reached to touch the back of his hand. “Coming to bed?” Almost a whisper.

In answer he folded back the duvet, and looked down at the complex of curves, which seemed to glow in the dimness. He sat on the edge of the mattress, and ran cool fingers along the insides of Bodie’s thighs. Both cocks filled.

“ _Who_ says what you do with this?”

“You do.”

“Don’t forget.” And with that he climbed on top.

* * * * *

In the first week of December CI5 received a tip-off that an animal-rights group was planning attacks on shops selling furs in the run-up to Christmas, and possibly into the January sales, and Bodie was put on a 12-hour surveillance shift until further notice. He was on nights in the first half of the month, and then on days - all six till six - which gave them a chance to try out most combinations of their two shift patterns, and to wish they were both shop-assistants.

During the worst combinations, Doyle would sometimes come home to find a sheet or two of paper folded on his pillow. He’d leave a note on Bodie’s side when he went to work, and usually it would be gone when he got back. Bodie’s letters were accumulating in a shoe-box at the top of the wardrobe nearest the door.

* * * * *

On Christmas Day itself, Doyle was working earlies. They had breakfast together at four in the morning, with mince pies and fresh coffee and orange juice. Bodie slid a small box across the table.

“I thought we’d agreed to wait until this evening.”

A dismissive shake of the head. “’s just something small. For the beat.”

It was a good pair of black leather gloves, warmly lined. They fitted perfectly. “How did you know the size?”

“I looked in your old pair. Anyway, I know _exactly_ what size your hands are.”

Now Doyle wished that he’d thought to buy a breakfast-present too, or even a card. Still, he’d put more planning into the season than at any time since he’d stopped believing in Santa Claus. Usually he just noted the advances in consumerism on the previous year, and watched the murders and suicides stacking up. It made such a difference now that he could treat the day as an wonderful excuse to take care of Bodie.

He’d spent hours flicking through recipe books for an alternative to turkey, which neither liked, and had settled on a honey-glazed ham with a mustard sauce. It was supposed to be a surprise, and if Bodie had looked under the cloth in the fridge, he’d made no comment.

The rich smells were filling the flat when Bodie arrived back at seven thirty on Christmas evening, boxes under one arm, and clinking carrier bags weighing down the other. Doyle met him in the hallway and took the wine from him.

“Is the champagne chilled?”

“’bout half an hour out of the fridge.”

He felt the bottle. “Oh, it’ll do.” And handed it over. “You’re the expert at this.” Leaving Bodie twisting the wire loose, he went into the bedroom, fetched down his own collection of boxes, and put them next to Bodie’s in the sitting room. Bodie appeared in the doorway, glasses in hand.

“Clannad” swelled and ebbed in the background, angelic and incomprehensible. From the settee, they contemplated the four packages on the floor in front of them.

“You go first. ‘s your turn. I was really glad of the gloves this morning, you know. Bloody chilly first thing.”

“Should warm your hands up for when you come in off nights.”

“Yeah, I noticed you complaining. Come on. Start with the big one.”

Bodie gave good value as a recipient of presents: he held up the large, flat, rectangular package and shook it, then felt around the decidedly frame-shape edges. “It’s a teddy-bear, isn’t it? Or ... a lemon squeezer?”

“Close, very close.”

It was, in fact, a print of Kandinsky’s “Cossacks”. Bodie looked pleased, but puzzled. He’d obviously never seen the vigorous, hectic patterns of primary colours before. “It’s great, but ... what is it?”

Doyle told him. “It’s in the Tate. It reminded me of Janacek, and I thought you’d like it. And I think it’ll look good in your flat. Over the mantlepiece, maybe.” The position over the mantlepiece was currently occupied by a photograph of a line of chorus-girls. Doyle was well aware of this fact.

Bodie looked into mid-air for a second, then back at the print. “You’re right. It’ll look great. Cowley will think I’ve finally got some culture. Thanks, Ray.” He went to prop the picture against the opposite wall, in view, but out of harm’s way. On the way back to the settee, he picked up a large cubic box.

Doyle dispensed with the guessing-games and just ripped the paper off. It was a casual jacket in fine brown leather, with a crimson silk lining. Exactly what he would have bought for himself, if he could have justified spending that sort of money.

“Oh, Bodie.”

He stroked and kneaded the hide, inhaling the sweet musk of good leather. Bodie watched him, smiling. It felt wonderful on, the lining cool and smooth against his skin, like the inside of Bodie’s limbs. His hands slid into the pockets, instantly at home.

“It _does_ match your hair.” Bodie was nodding to himself.

He pinched a fold of the sleeve. “My hair’s mud-coloured. Nothing like this.”

“You don’t see the way the light catches it. I’ve seen ... every colour at one time or another. Sometimes all at once. But mostly that. ‘s why I got it.” He leaned forward and touched the jacket lightly, brushing Doyle’s fingertips.

Doyle grasped the hand before it could retreat. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”

A slight shake of the head. “Because _you’re_ wearing it. You make everything beautiful.”

He blinked down at Bodie, not yet used tohearing him talk like that and obviously mean it. He loved it, but it was outside all his experience. The only answer he could make was to bend down for a kiss, which continued until his back started to ache.

Bodie’s other present from Doyle was a black cashmere pullover.

“Can I try it on?”

“’s what it’s meant for.”

Bodie started to shrug out of his jacket and shirt.

“I’ll top up the champagne.” When he returned from the kitchen with the bottle, Bodie was on his feet, just pulling the hem down.

“How’s it look?”

An appraising stare. “Very sexy. Even better than I imagined. How’s it feel?”

“Good.” Bodie brushed his knuckles against the inside of an elbow, then let his hand fall.

“Let me.” Doyle hugged him one-handed, the other hand occupied with the champagne. “Ahh, feels wonderful.” His eyes were shut as he rubbed his face against Bodie’s shoulder. Knowing that there were hard muscles underneath made the wool seem even softer. He felt Bodie’s hands come to rest lightly against his spine.

In his ear, “Can we go to bed? Is there time? Before dinner?”

“There’s time.” In the corridor he stopped, and tugged Bodie away from the bedroom, and in front of the full length mirror in the lobby area. “You see how sexy you look? So dark ... but so light. A bit dangerous. Exciting.” Bodie’s face was serious and maybe shy. Even more exciting.

He reached for the flies on Bodie’s cream cords, just running a thumb along at first, keeping his eyes fixed on Bodie’s in the mirror. “You’ve got this look of ... ‘cock’. So’s I can’t think of anything else.” They both swallowed. Bodie canted his hips forward, and the zip was eased down, almost opening itself with the growing pressure inside.

“Oh, Christ.” Doyle was on his knees, one hand squeezing black-haired, heavy balls, the other searching between solid buttocks, while he studied the thick, reddening cock, framed magnificently by the black jumper. He hadn’t planned this, had intended just a quick detour. But Bodie had looked so beautiful.

He managed to open his own trousers one-handed, then dipped that hand into the pool of saliva in his mouth. “Bodie?” He was asking permission. A distracted nod.

Bodie arched his neck as the finger slid in, exhaling a long harsh breath that was not quite a moan. His right hand closed on thin air, his left in Doyle’s curls. Doyle watched the mirror throughout, moved, pierced by a clear sweetness quite separate from the basic heat and urgency of their activity. When the finger was buried deep, he paused, and rested his face against Bodie’s flank, licking what skin he could reach.

In an ideal world, he would fuck Bodie now. Bend him over and open him wide, take such care of him. And all witnessed and approved by the mirror. In an ideal world.

The hand stroked around his skull to his neck, then back again. “Ray?” Breathless. “More?” He slid the finger out, while Bodie panted. But then he just cupped his freed hand around Bodie’s thigh, using it to hold him closer.

“Ray?” Pleading.

“Do me.” It would be nearly as good. “Here. Now.” He pulled himself to his feet, and started pushing his jeans and briefs down his thighs. Bodie stared at him for three open-mouthed breaths, then grabbed him close. Tongues and cocks slid together. Doyle thought dimly, _I’m going to come all over this very expensive jumper_. With an effort, he pulled back. “Now.”

He braced himself with his hands on either side of the mirror. Bodie was spitting into his hands, and somehow looked beautiful doing even that. Then he was sinking to his knees, out of sight.

“Oh. Bodie. Oh.” Could some part of the mirror see this properly? See Bodie’s open mouth and lapping tongue? Lucky mirror.

They’d never tried it with just saliva before, and Doyle took great care to relax the muscles for the entry. Bodie was also careful, and it was fine.

They’d also never tried it standing up. When Bodie straightened his legs, Doyle was drawn up on his toes, almost off his feet. He grunted in protest, which Bodie seemed to understand immediately, bending his knees to relieve the pressure.

Doyle watched his swaying, sweating reflection through half-closed eyes. There was little to be seen of Bodie after all, except for the hand on his cock, moving in time with the one inside him. _Portrait of a man having a wonderful, wonderful fuck_. He smiled, and kept on watching until the end, when orgasm threw his head back and closed his eyes.

The glass was spattered with semen. Bodie was still hard.

“Ray, I want to ... I’ll stop if you ...”

“Go on.”

Bodie grasped his hips and lifted him off his feet. It was almost like floating in mid-air, held up only by a burning cock that skewered him to his heart, pounding in full length, full strength. And God, he _was_ strong, arms not even shaking under the weight.

“Ray! Oh. Ray. Love you. Love you. Ray.”

Doyle started to get hard again. But it was over too soon.

They lay on the carpet, legs entwined as much as their trousers would allow, kissing, and licking the sweat from one another’s faces.

“I _thought_ we were going to bed.”

Doyle laughed shakily. “To sleep. After that. Christ.”

“Yeah.” Silence except for moist sighs. “Should we have the meal tomorrow? Will it keep?”

Groan. “I’d forgotten all about it.” He flopped onto his back and looked at the ceiling. Bodie rested a hand on his stomach. “It probably _would_ keep but ... No, let’s do it properly. Not often I feel like making a fuss over Christmas.”

“OK.” Bodie made to stand up, but tripped over his own trousers, so he undid his shoelaces and kicked the whole lot off. Doyle copied him.

“Better have a shower.” Doyle picked up both sets of clothes, dumped them in the laundry basket in the bathroom, and then finished his strip. He placed his new jacket carefully outside the door - the silk lining was now very damp at the armpits and along the centre of the back. Bodie folded his jumper - also far from dry - and put it on top of the jacket.

When they were dressed again, Doyle put the water on for the vegetables, and they went back to the sitting room to finish off the champagne. Doyle turned the record over while Bodie poured the wine. When he returned to the settee, Bodie was holding out the last package.

It was obviously a book. He wondered what Bodie could have deduced about his reading tastes, since he’d hardly read anything since they’d become involved. When he found out, he nearly fell on the floor laughing.

“What’s so funny? You’ve not read it, have you?”

Doyle shook his head, not yet able to frame a coherent answer.

“What’s so funny then? I saw you had a few books about Scott and Shackleton, and so on, and this one’s just come out. It’s supposed to have a lot of new stuff. I thought you’d like it.”

“I do like it. Thanks, love.” He reached out to squeeze Bodie’s thigh. “It’s just ... I first started reading those books when you were away. In Inverness. And I was missing you. In one way in particular. Kept on thinking of ...” He closed his eyes, then shook his head sharply and opened them again. “Cold showers didn’t do a thing. Just all these books about freezing cold. Kept me sane till you got back.”

Bodie was serious. “I missed you, too. Kept thinking you’d have ... gone back to women by the time I got back.”

“No.” Very definite. “Tell you what, though. All the stuff I was ...” He ran a hand through his hair. “... dreaming up then, and near bursting out of m’jeans for, it’s not a tenth of what it’s really like with you. Even if this -“ he patted the book,”- is as _cold_ as all the others put together, it wouldn’t do any good now.”

Bodie covered the hand on the book and bent to kiss him, very lightly. “Thanks, Ray. That’s the best present of the lot.”

* * * * *

They also managed to bring in the New Year together. Doyle had New Year’s Eve off, with lates the next day. Bodie was still working days. They both turned down invitations to colleagues’ parties to meet in Doyle’s flat, as usual, and to consume yet more champagne.

Bodie had an early start the next morning, so they went to bed long before Big Ben chimed. It turned out to be another night that could defeat the polar cold.

Passion surrounded the bed. Doyle felt it as a mist in the air, that condensed on his skin, mixing with his sweat and turning his entire body into a sex organ. At times he wondered if he would survive.

Bodie seemed in awe of the depth of his lover’s response. After the slow penetration he looked down into the sweat drenched face, finding even the revealed tonsils beautiful, and waited for Ray’s eyes to open. When they did, they looked dazed. Bodie did not know it, but his own expression was similar.

He bent to taste from the open mouth, “You’re beautiful, Ray. So beautiful. I don’t deserve you.”

Doyle just smiled and shook his head. At that moment he barely understood words. His brain had been requisitioned for use of his senses, and comprehension and thought were banished for a while.

Afterwards they rested against one another, hands drifting, speech still not Doyle’s first choice. He was sure he could _see_ the passion in the air, now, glowing like a heat-trace. Earlier, he had been blinded to it, it had been so strong. Now it lingered in the air they had breathed, the moisture that had evaporated from them. By morning it would be diluted and invisible, but it would never truly die.

They were on the brink of sleep when the neighbourhood erupted in cheers and party-hooters and even some fireworks.

“Happy New Year, sweetheart.”

“It will be. With you. A happy new decade.”

* * * * *

Bodie stayed on days in the new year, the night shift having been dropped as the operation wound down. This meant they were back to snatched hours and letters on the pillow while Doyle was on lates and then nights. Doyle’s long weekly leave seemed an age in coming. And after that he’d be back in the car - with the hour’s time-lag - and Bodie would probably be stuck in a hotel again.

Still, the weekly leave meant four days of being able to meet like regular people: go drinking in the evenings, go to see films, stuff like that. They were going to start off on the first day, a Monday, by meeting in a pub in Soho and then trying out a Vietnamese restaurant that Doyle had heard some of the youngsters talking about in the locker room.

He arrived early, knowing that the chances of getting a seat after 6.15 were zero. Bodie had never yet made it to this pub before 6.30, and Doyle was prepared to wait longer if he could wait in comfort, and avoid propping up the bar, being jostled by music journalists and messengers from film companies, and looking up every time the door opened.

There was a table free by the door, and he settled with a pint and a paper. By 6.45 he was getting slightly worried, and was having to fight to keep Bodie’s chair for him. This wasn’t _really_ unusual, though. Twice he’d been nearly half-an-hour late.

By seven o’clock Doyle had given six performances of the old routine of: “Is this chair taken?” - “I’m waiting for someone.” He was starting to feel conspicuous. The people who’d asked for the chair were bound to notice when Bodie arrived - or notice even more if Bodie didn’t arrive, and he eventually gave up.

At ten past he finished his pint and debated whether to leave immediately, or hang on for another. He could always have just a half. He had a pint.

The second pint lasted him until twenty-five to eight, by which time the early-evening crowd of those winding down after work had thinned out. Bodie had never been this late before. He didn’t know whether to be worried or pissed off. Bodie wouldn’t have forgotten, but he could have got a message to him, for God’s sake. The pub must be in the ‘phone-book.

Outside the pub, he stood on the pavement, not knowing what to do with the evening. Half an hour ago he’d been looking forward to a good meal, good company, and great sex, but now ... He wandered towards Shaftesbury Avenue, emerging onto the street just opposite the fire station. As he stepped onto the pedestrian crossing, a siren started up and a fire engine pulled out and hurtled towards Cambridge Circus.

He froze on the crossing, and watched as the vehicle went screaming through the red light and right into Charing Cross Road. Finally he realised the car-horns were meant for him, and he finished crossing the road, and followed the fire-engine towards Trafalgar Square and Whitehall.

Tony on the desk didn’t tell him where Bodie was - not that Doyle asked, not outright - but he did make it clear that 3.7 was alive and well, and working out of London.

Doyle tried to sound casual - “s’posed to be meeting him for a drink, y’know” - and succeeded. Tony could never have guessed that he was talking to a man who had just realised that his lover could die, and he might not know for days, or weeks, because no one would think to tell him. He might even miss Bodie’s funeral.

* * * * *

He went straight home. He was hungry, but also restless, and almost too impatient to prepare any food, or even to sit down and eat it. But he was planning on doing some drinking, and had trained himself to eat on such occasions, as he had trained himself to drink a pint of water before going to bed in order to combat the hangover. Sometimes he surprised himself at his own discipline.

For the first time in this flat, he sat in the near-dark on the floor by his amplifier, and drank beer and scotch, and listened to loud music on his headphones. Today Janaceck was just raw enough, and “Diamond Dogs” played very loud indeed so that his own feelings were almost drowned out in the chaos and desperation of the music. That evening he played a lot of music that he’d bought because he admired it, but rarely listened to because he found it too demanding. At half past eleven he was lying flat on his back, singing along with “The Stranglers”, the needles on his cassette deck dancing merrily to and fro in the red zone, and he did not hear the phone ring.

He remembered the pint of water but still felt like a troll the next morning. He threw up a couple of times, had some orange juice, coffee, and salt, and felt sufficiently sure of his stomach to risk a trip to Sainsbury’s. It wasn’t until late afternoon that he lost the feeling that life was a film being screened in front of him (by a projectionist who ought to be sacked). It was worse than usual since he was also slightly deaf.

Back at the flat, he stared into his fridge, not in the mood to eat _anything_ he’d just bought. Restless, still, and feeling time weighing heavily on his hands (his leave was barely started, for God’s sake!). Not going to get drunk again, though. He was just sober enough to be alarmed at how hyped-up he’d got - wasn’t like him. But he didn’t want to go out, and of course there was nothing on TV except American sitcoms and who-dunnits, and a couple of idiotic disaster movies.

The video. Of course. He could get a video. Bound to be _something_ he fancied. Twenty minutes later he was back with “The African Queen”, and “Jaws”. The feeling of accomplishment was out of proportion, really, but he did feel a lot better.

He watched “The African Queen” first, enjoying it as much as ever. It reminded him a bit of him and Bodie, but he didn’t know why ... Except that the situation was goodies versus baddies in Africa, with lots of travelling.

During the interval before the main feature, he got some soup and toast. He was watching the adverts for other videos when the phone rang.

“Hi, Ray.”

“Oh. Bodie.”

“Sorry about yesterday. I’ve been sent up north to join Murph.”

“Oh, is that what it was?”

“You got the message then. Good.”

“What message?”

“You didn’t get it?” Doyle didn’t reply. “Shit. Well, there’s a note on the board in the kitchen for you. I left it about lunchtime. I thought you might still be asleep after your shift.”

“I left early. Went to the range for some practice.”

“Ah. Damn. Hope you didn’t wait long. You found something else to do with the evening, anyway.”

Doyle discovered that he didn’t want to tell Bodie just how long he had waited, or how worried he’d been. Bodie would think him a fool. All Bodie seemed to be apologising for was the social inconvenience. He had very little imagination, really. “No, I didn’t wait long. I stayed in and listened to music.”

“Not all evening, though.”

“Yes, all evening.”

“Oh. Well, you weren’t answering your ‘phone. I guessed you’d found something else to do.”

“Oh.” Ray didn’t know what to make of this. Was Bodie trying to check up on him? He didn’t sound bothered enough. But why should he even try unless he’d been up to something himself? Not a pleasant puzzle. He left it for the moment.

“How long are you going to be up north?”

“Not long, I hope. Murph’s been doing some good work. I think we’re on to something. If everything goes well we should be able to wrap this up in about a week.”

“Good.”

They were silent for a few seconds. There was nothing Doyle wanted to say.

“You’re very quiet, Ray.”

Silence.

“Is anything wrong?”

More silence.

“Are you really pissed off with me for standing you up? There was nothing I could do about it, you know, and I _did_ leave a message.”

“I was pretty pissed off, yes. I felt a right prat sitting in the pub, _obviously_ waiting for someone, who never turned up. I know it’s not your fault, but ... I was looking forward to the evening, and ... I hate being disappointed.”

“I know, Ray. I was looking forward to it myself.” He paused. “I miss you, Ray. Murph’s better than most, but he still gets on my nerves by the end of the day.”

“And you can’t fuck him either, can you? No wonder you miss me.”

“Ray! Don’t be like that. Please don’t be so angry with me. Tell me what I’ve done wrong.”

The unmistakeable sound of panic quietened Doyle. He wanted to take his anxiety out on someone. Last night he’d tried himself, and now he was trying Bodie, but it wasn’t making him feel any better.

“You haven’t done anything, Bodie. I’m sorry. I’ve got a lousy hangover and I’m in an odd mood. Don’t take any notice.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive. Look, ‘phone again tomorrow. I should be more worth talking to.”

“I will. There’s a letter on its way, too. Take care, love.”

“You too.”

After hanging up, he went into the kitchen and found the note. He didn’t know how he’d missed it before. If he hadn’t rushed out to the range he could have spared himself the hangover and everything else.

The video had finally got to the film, but he wasn’t following the story at all. He didn’t know why he’d been so angry and so unpleasant to Bodie. Bodie _had_ left a message, so why was he still tense? All that had happened was that he’d spent an hour and a half sitting in his favourite pub - hardly torture.

He didn’t like behaving like this, didn’t like being this moody. Wasn’t Bodie supposed to keep him even-tempered? In some ways he did. When they were just lounging in the sitting room, talking, drinking, listening to music. But in other ways ... He now had first-hand experience of extremes of emotion that he’d always thought were a poet’s exaggeration, or a social menace. Did it matter, though, as long as they were happy, and coping?

* * * * *

Bodie’s letter arrived on Wednesday morning, and, as promised, the man called again in the evening. Doyle was in a much better mood, having laughed at the letter and got rid of the last of his tense energy in a long run in Regent’s Park, where the pond was frozen over, and the birds skidded for a yard when they landed on it.

It was a short, pleasant conversation that left both men feeling reassured. At the end Bodie said that he might not be able to call again for a while since he and Murphy were about to move into position for a full-time surveillance in a crumbling flat with no phone.

“S’OK. Get in touch when you can.” He paused slightly. “Is there likely to be any trouble ... I mean, are things going to get rough?”

“With this mob? No way. Might catch some fleas, but I promise I’ll get rid of them before I see you again. I’ll write. Might end up delivering them by hand, but I _will_ write.”

* * * * *

At the end of Doyle’s leave, he started his three-month stint in the area car with Terry West as his radio operator again. West’s girlfriend Barbara was now back in town - a danger that Doyle had nearly forgotten about. No one had asked about Melanie in a long time.

“Oh, she left a few months ago. Wanted to be back in Australia for Christmas.”

“Seeing anyone else?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Mmm.” Well, that seemed safe enough. No double-dates.

West was much more lively this stint. He got on Doyle’s nerves sometimes. He was so _young_ and puppyish. Doyle hated puppies.

Still, at other times he was a laugh. Doyle soon came to rely on him for film reviews, since there was almost nothing Terry hadn’t seen. Not that he was a film buff - he was an addict, pure and simple.

He was also an excellent mimic, with a phonographic memory for dialogue, and he would insist on enacting key scenes from the film he’d seen the day before. Maybe Doyle could have made him stop, but most of the time he didn’t want to: Terry had a fine sense of the ridiculous, and the parodies were entertaining even when you hadn’t seen the original.

 West was also addicted to “Dallas”, though he only admitted this towards the end of the week, when he felt more sure of his partner. Doyle didn’t laugh at him - he’d had a foster brother who ate caterpillars, and was rarely surprised or shocked by what people did for fun - so West treated him to his fifteen-minute “Dallas” synopsis, which was to become a regular feature of their working life.

Their other main topic of conversation was the police force, but West was less entertaining on this subject. Doyle guessed that he’d joined principally for security, and for the respect that was still, occasionally, accorded a police officer. He seemed the type who needed order in his personal and professional life, and seemed bewildered that other people (especially young civilians) were able to exist in chaos.

This attitude didn’t seem to make any difference to his dealings with the public, and he handled most people sensibly. Doyle watched him with the young, ultra-respectable shoplifter in Waitrose, who seemed to think that her pearls and Alice-band made her invisible, and with the Jewish religious maniac who had caused concern in the library with his long, loud impassioned speech about the commandment “Thou shalt not kill”, which he insisted was a mistranslation and should have read “Thou shalt not murder”, since some types of killing, such as killing in support of the interests of one’s tribe were acceptable, and even obligatory. Tricky stuff, but West quietened him down, even if he didn’t win the debate.

West was OK. But sometimes, in discussing the events of the day, he showed a narrowness of thought that made Doyle feel distanced from him, and feel that they could never truly be friends. West’s sole theory of criminology involved the breakup of the family, what with women going out to work, and too-easy divorce. He would happily have lectured on this topic for hours, but Doyle was less happy to listen. As the product of a shattered home, he felt he’d turned out perfectly well. A few bored grunts would usually stop the lecture after a minute or so.

* * * * *

Doyle heard nothing from Bodie until the next Wednesday, the last day of earlies, when Bodie let himself in at around eight, the operation over, the activists cleared.

Sometimes Bodie was tense at the end of an operation, tense as he had been during the first leg of their trip to Brija. He was never violent, always made sure of Doyle’s pleasure, never _quite_ did anything worth objecting to. And he never told Doyle enough about the operation to enable him to empathise with the tension.

This evening, though, Bodie seemed perfectly relaxed. Tired, and rather subdued, maybe, but it had been a long week, and a long drive back to London. Doyle fed him, and held him as he dozed on the sofa in front of repeats of “The Good Life”. He couldn’t understand, now, what he’d seen in Felicity Kendal.

The sex that night was very gentle, and very good. As they kissed, afterwards, Doyle closed his eyes, concentrating on the different tastes of their semen, before the tastes became inextricably mixed with each other and with the taste of Bodie’s mouth. He thought, “Am I really gay, after all?” and was surprised that it hadn’t occurred to him before. He didn’t know if the answer was particularly important, but it was odd that he hadn’t found out earlier.

Pleasantly worn out, he slept deeply until he was woken by cries, and by the struggles of the body in his arms as it tried to get away.

_Oh, no_. It had been nearly two months since the last one.

 Bodie was finally fully awake, and lay with his face buried in the pillow, quiet except for his ragged breathing. Doyle stroked his hair, and waited for him to draw away into whatever comfort he found on the far side of the bed. But for some reason tonight was different - Bodie turned towards him and hugged him desperately tight.

Doyle kissed the top of his head, and stroked up and down the strong back.

“Shh. It’s over, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Shh.” Over and over.

The grip didn’t ease. Gradually he became aware of the lips moving against his neck, and he fell quiet. Bodie almost never spoke at these times.

“Ray. Ray.” That was all. Over and over.

“I’m here, love. I’ve got you. I love you. I’m here.”

The lips were kissing him now, still murmuring his name. It had never been like this before, certainly not after a dream that bad. He wanted to believe that it meant Bodie was getting better, getting over it, but he couldn’t. Optimism belonged to another time.

What could be different, though? There wasn’t much chance that he’d guess - so much about the nightmares was a mystery to him. But he couldn’t stop trying. And his best guess seemed so good, he couldn’t let it go.

“Bodie? Sunshine? Bodie?”

The lips seemed to still, as if Bodie was listening.

“Bodie? Did this happen last week? With Murphy?” In answer, the arms around him increased their grip, and he gritted his teeth as the pressure came near pain.

“Was he angry?” Though how _could_ you be, at this? What he wanted to ask was, “Did he guess?” but he couldn’t since it would mean admitting that he’d known all along.

He thought Bodie shook his head. “Good. Well, that’s all right then. And I’ve got you now. It’s all right.” The fierce grip gradually eased, and finally Bodie slept.

Doyle held the slow-breathing body, hands still, chin receiving the wavy imprint of Bodie’s hair. From somewhere in his subconscious, a word surfaced, and stayed in his mind: “veiller”. French, he thought. He didn’t speak French. It wouldn’t go away.

Gradually, memories accreted to it. Ann, flicking through his mother’s copy of “Les Trois Mousquetaires” (he’d figured that one out with the help of the picture on the cover), picking the word out for some reason, and trying to discuss with him the subtle differences between it and the English “vigil”. Amazing that he’d taken any of it in - he’d thought his mind fully occupied with the feelings of humiliation and misgiving.

What had she said? “Watching over someone.” “Staying awake while others sleep.” “And here,” pointing at the book, and then reading the sentence, “that’s it at its most extreme, which you _don’t_ get with ‘vigil’. The idea of a sacred trust and privilege.”

For the first time, he wished he could read the book. Maybe it would give him more words to describe how he felt about nights like this.

* * * * *

There were no more nightmares during Doyle’s week of lates, and Doyle pushed the whole thing out of his mind with the ease of practice.

On the last Thursday in January, his weekly leave between lates and nights, he met Bodie at CI5 HQ for the sixth or seventh time - he had long ago lost count. Bodie appeared dead on time with the usual mob of dry throats.

Once in the pub, Doyle was surprised to realise that it was over two months since he’d last been here. God, yes. Who could forget _that_ evening? He glanced around for Lucas and Taylor, but didn’t see them. Had they been giving Bodie hassle since then? If it had been another two months without crumpet? Unless, of course, Bodie had been keeping something from him again. _No, he wouldn’t be that stupid, would he?_

Doyle was getting in his round when Murphy joined the group. Doyle took his order, and they stood together at the bar while the pints were pulled.

“How are you getting on with your new partner?”

The policeman’s surprise was so obvious that Murphy felt obliged to elaborate, “Bodie said you’d been saddled with some youngster. How’s he shaping up?”

“Well, he’s not exactly new. We’ll be working three months on, three months off. I did my first stint with him last summer.”

“He’s OK?”

“Yeah. Bit gabby ...” Doyle gave a brief report on West that gave little impression of the man’s character. He would have put more effort into the description had he not been shocked at the idea of Bodie discussing him with someone else, and then disturbed as he tried to analyse and account for the shock. He liked Murphy most of all of Bodie’s colleagues, but now he felt wary of him, somehow exposed.

He paid for the drinks and then distributed them, and ended up on the fringes of the group, next to Bodie through accident rather than manoevering. However, he was glad to have a chance to tell him about his brief visit to the British Museum, on the way to the pub. It had been his first time in eleven years in London, and he was planning on dragging Bodie along one day.

In fact, it was actually the British Library that had had the greatest impression on him, to his own surprise. Books didn’t mean a great deal to him on their own account: they had to have some additional practical value, or special associations. However, the sight of Jane Austen’s notebook had made him aware of the reality of previous centuries in a way that few museum exhibits had ever done, and he’d felt almost able to see a shadowy figure bent over the pages. Half-way though trying to explain this to Bodie, he felt he was making a hash of it, and paused. But Bodie was looking interested, not baffled. He smiled and raised an eyebrow at the pause, and Doyle smiled back and continued his story.

Temporarily excluded from the discussion on his left about pay rises, and yet to break into the one on his right about Australian beer, Doyle looked up, surveying the room, and noticed someone else who was not involved in any of the groups. It was Murphy, who was staring expressionlessly at a point to Doyle’s right. He followed the direction of the gaze, and saw that it rested on Bodie.

Suddenly cold, he looked back at Murphy, trying to identify what lay behind the man’s interest. The stare was too prolonged and unblinking to be simply abstraction, but otherwise there were no clues.

Someone nudged Murphy and asked a question Doyle didn’t hear, and the gaze was broken.

However, Bodie had acquired a new silent observer. What had Murphy been seeing? Bodie looked as he usually did at these sessions in the pub: relaxed, good-humoured, tough. No different from any of the other CI5 men. Except better-looking, of course.

Doyle glanced back at Murphy, who was deep in conversation. Why had he been staring? Did he suspect about them? No, he couldn’t. You’d have to be a mind-reader to figure it out, they were so careful.

Was he interested in Bodie in some way? Oh. God. The nightmare. It seemed so obvious. He had been staring at Bodie ... and speculating. That was it.

Doyle felt sick, as well as cold. _What do you know?_ _What did you hear? Did you guess it all?_

Suddenly he felt a wave of hatred for the calm agent, and for his detached, indifferent observation of a pain he could never understand, him with his geology degree and his letters to the directors of oil companies.

_If you let him know you’re watching him, and he suspects why ..._

He looked at his lover again, seeing a cynical smile and quirked eyebrows, but remembering the helpless fear. _If he suspects ..._

The hatred was extinguished, as a pool of cool purpose spread through Doyle. He felt completely calm, and he was repeating the vow he had made eight months ago.

At that moment Bodie looked up, and met his eye. He grinned and beckoned him over. Doyle moved, smiling, to stand close, close enough to smell the last traces of aftershave, almost unrecognisable now after a day of being heated by Bodie’s blood, and mixed with the secretions of Bodie’s skin.

He joined in the light-hearted conversation, but part of him was making another vow, this time directed towards Ian Murphy.

_I will do anything to stop you causing him pain. You or anyone else._

The peace he felt in this most-unpeaceful declaration was not strange to him. It was the peace he felt as he and Bodie drifted to sleep in one another’s arms. It was the peace he’d felt when he decided, at 15, to join the police-force. The peace of utter certainty.

“You were very quiet this evening, in the pub,” said Bodie as he sliced tomatoes in Doyle’s small kitchen. “Is there anything wrong?”

Doyle paused half-way through winding down the corkscrew. He looked up. There was no way he could tell Bodie the truth, but there was something he wanted to know.

“There’s nothing wrong exactly, but ... you’ve been discussing me with Murph, haven’t you? He asked me about Terry. It ... threw me a bit.”

Bodie frowned. “We haven’t been ‘discussing’ you. He asked me how you were doing, and I told him. I couldn’t just ignore him, could I?” Bodie’s face was becoming set, and his voice becoming defensive.

“I’m not angry with you, Bodie. As I say, it threw me, and ... I think if anyone starts to suspect about us it’ll be him. He’s got enough imagination to think of it, and ... why do you think he was asking about me?”

“Because he likes you. You’re right that he would be the one to suspect, but he doesn’t. I’m positive. He hasn’t been asking any odd questions about us, or ... looking at us or anything, has he.” It was a clipped statement, not a question.

Doyle dropped his gaze back to the bottle of wine. “No.” He carried on opening it.

“He just likes you, Ray,” finished Bodie softly. “I can understand that.”

Doyle glanced up quickly, eyes alight, then looked down again, smiling this time. Bodie was also smiling as he returned to the tomatoes. Ray worried so much about everything, would search a chewing-gum wrapper for hidden meanings. It could probably be exhausting at times, but it was good that he talked.

* * * * *

The week after that, Bodie was out of town again for the first week of a fortnight’s refresher course. He got back at the weekend - which co-incided with Doyle’s long weekly leave - but they saw very little of each other.

Doyle had got himself volunteered for duty at a football match on the Saturday afternoon, which was useful enough for the overtime. He’d been expecting Bodie to arrive at the flat on Friday night, and held off eating until the hunger became uncomfortable. By the time he had to leave for the match, Bodie had still not turned up, so he left a note in the kitchen weighed down by a packet of Jaffa Cakes so Bodie couldn’t possibly miss it.

The note said that he’d be home by five, but the match turned violent. He didn’t get back to the station until half past, and then he got caught up in paperwork and interviews. At six he managed to sneak out to ‘phone his flat - no reply - and then Bodie’s - also no reply - and returned to the interview room with a grim expression that jerked the adam’s-apple of the tattooed interviewee.

At six thirty, West opened the door of the interview room and told him there was a visitor for him at the desk. It was Bodie.

Slight pause. “Sorry. I got tied up at the match.”

“Yeah, I guessed that. I saw the news. Everything OK?”

Surprised. “Yeah.”

“Uh. Said there’s been some injuries. When you gonna be free?”

A shrug. “Dunno.” He kept his mouth open to say, _I’ll call you when I’m finished_ , but Bodie was there before him.

“Forget about it then?”

He blinked. It seemed drastic, when Bodie could just wait for him back at the flat. But it wouldn’t be safe to say that, not here. Maybe it was a code. They should have sorted this out beforehand. “Yeah, I guess so. I’ll call you during the week.” Which Bodie _couldn’t_ take at face value, since the training camp seemed to have no ‘phone.

“OK. See you,” and he was gone.

* * * * *

He didn’t get finished at the station until nearly eight, and by that time he was tired and completely fed up with the youth of Britain. West was in the same state of mind, to judge by the way he was banging about in his locker.

“D’you fancy a drink?”

Doyle opened his mouth and then closed it. A pint was just what he wanted. But he’d rather drink with Bodie. What if they’d been using different code books, though?

“I do. But I’ve just gotta check something. Can you hang on for a minute?” He went back to the pay ‘phone, and called the two flats, again with no reply. What was Bodie playing at, the dozy prat?

In the pub, West immediately started moaning about the loss of his Saturday night. “Was supposed to be meeting Barbara. Had to cancel. Well, same as you did.” West had no idea just how similar the situations were.

On the second pint, they got onto football hooligans, and Doyle discovered that West was not just fed up, he was seething.

“They’re such little _shits_. So fucking _ignorant_. Y’see them doing it again and again. I wanna take ‘em and smash their heads against a wall. Only way to get any sense into their skulls.” His breathing had quickened, and his face was starting to turn red.

Doyle’s eyes widened. “Save that for when you’re working with Stone, will you? Or better still ...” A shrug. “... don’t let it get to you.”

“You’ve got it sussed, have you?” A challenge, not a genuine request for information.

“Well, I think so. They’re just _boring_. Working hard on throwing their lives away. Not worth risking your career over.”

“Easy enough to _say_. But when they’re sitting there - Think they’re so fucking _hard_. Just wanna -“ He was redder still.

“Yeah, I know. Used to get to me, just the same. Look - What finally sorted it out for me was this article in - you’re not going to believe this - some _punk_ newspaper called ... ‘New Musical ... Something’. I wouldn’t have seen it except Alan’s son showed it to him to wind him up, and he brought it in. This was a couple of years ago.

“Anyway, this woman was saying that trying to knock sense into hooligans was a total waste of time, and just made them worse. If they were tough before, they just got tougher. And _she_ said they that instead they should go to special prisons where they’re _softened_ up with ... um ... manicures every day, and perfumed baths, and Julio Inglesias albums, and lectures from Boy George.

“What was it? Um ... ‘No boy who has invested time and attention in his nails is going to risk breaking them in the course of GBH’.” He laughed.

West didn’t. “What’s your point?”

“Well, these days I just think of them in that kind of prison, doing flower arranging, and painting each other’s toenails, and think how much they’d hate the very idea of it ...” He shrugged and grinned. “I can’t take them seriously enough to want to thump them.”

“Huh. Seeing them as poofs. I’d just want to thump them even more.”

_Ah. Should have seen that coming._ Oh, screw West. Let him sort _himself_ out. Doyle wasn’t going to share his secrets any more.

He finished his pint quickly, shook his head when West suggested another, and disappeared into the night.

The note under the Jaffa Cakes had gone, and when he lifted the packet (noticeably lighter) he found a sealed envelope under it, with his name in Bodie’s familiar, rounded hand:

> Dear Ray,
> 
> I don’t know if you were expecting me last night. There was some trouble in Amsterdam last week and they squeezed in some extra sessions about it and we ended up staying an extra night. Like I said, it’s best to give up on me if I’m more than half an hour late or so. Don’t ruin your evenings on my account.
> 
> I got back at about three and saw your note. Thanks. I saw the aggro at the match on TV, and I’m just off to check that you didn’t get caught up in it. I don’t know how much we’ll be able to say at the station (or the hospital) but take care of yourself and I wish I could stay with you wherever I find you. I won’t come back after. It seems safest in case someone brings you home from hospital or the pub (I know how days like this go with our mob).
> 
> There’s that judo tournament tomorrow and I’ll be gone all day and I’ll have to go straight from that back to camp. I really wish I could see you. I’ll try and ‘phone if I get a moment to myself. If not I’ll write.
> 
> Please take care of yourself. I love you. They won’t put you on football again next weekend, will they?
> 
> Bodie

_Dozy prat. Dozy paranoid prat. As if I’d bring someone to the flat when I thought there was a chance he was waiting for me. We’ve got to sort this out_.

* * * * *

The next Friday Bodie arrived at about ten in the evening, as Doyle was preparing for bed. They sat up for half an hour talking and drinking, and then Doyle started yawning, and they moved next door.

“Strewth.” Doyle had just got his first good look at the state of Bodie’s skin. He drew back the duvet, and traced each bruise and cut as Bodie lay quietly.

“You should have seen me a couple of days ago.”

“Probably as well I didn’t. Who’s responsible for all this?”

Bodie sat up, and provided a guided tour, assigning names to most of the marks. He was surprised himself at how much he remembered, given that the collection was routine for him. If there was a tactile equivalent of a photographic memory, then he must have one.

The names Macklin and Towser occurred most frequently, but there were others - too many for Doyle to take on.

“Do they have to do this to you?”

A shrug. “Helps keep us alive.”

“Or something like it.” Doyle wanted to show sympathy - the marks made _him_ wince - but he felt as if Bodie was pushing him away, telling him that this was CI5 business, and none of his. Would it always be like this when Bodie brought work home?

* * * * *

On Monday afternoon, near the beginning of their shift, West said, “D’you meet your friend on Saturday?”

“Uh?”

“The bloke who came round after the football the other week. D’you manage to meet this week?”

“Oh, Bodie. Yeah.”

“You know, I must have lost about half my friends when I joined the force. Some of the lads didn’t want to socialise with a copper, anyway. Thought I’d nick ‘em, or something. Cramp their style, anyway. Then the others ... they can’t keep track of the shifts and they just give up trying to invite you to the pub or anything.”

“Yeah. You usually end up sticking with other coppers.”

“He’s a copper, is he? Your friend?”

“Sort of. CI5.” Probably shouldn’t say that, but ... Bodie _was_ known in the station as CI5, and West might have found out anyway.

 

“Oh!” Obviously impressed.

_Great. How many machismo points do you get for knowing someone in CI5? More or less than you get for taking the tops off beer bottles with your teeth?_

West _had_ been listening to station gossip. “Is he the bloke who -“

“Yup. That’s him.”

“Oh.” Surprise. “He seemed a nice bloke. I’d heard he was ... um ...” West had started a sentence he didn’t dare finish.

Doyle decided to rescue him. “... an arrogant pain in the arse. He is, but not all the time.”

A quick, nervous smile. “How long’s he been with CI5?”

“Not sure. Three years or so, I think.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“Apply then, why don’t you?”

“Oh no, you don’t apply. _They_ find _you_.”

“They’ll find you quicker if you send them your address.”

West raised an eyebrow but said nothing. In fact, he was very quiet for the rest of the shift, and Doyle assumed he was thinking about himself in CI5.

Would he _do_ anything about it? Probably not. Better kept as a pipedream for boring your mates with. But if he did apply, and got in ...? He’d be working with Bodie.

Doyle frowned as the idea hit him. Jealousy. At the thought of Terry able to be with Bodie at the times when _he_ couldn’t. He’d turned down that chance nine months ago, so it wasn’t rational for him to be jealous, but since when has that mattered?


	7. Heat-Trace - Chapter 5

## Chapter 5

On Tuesday they didn’t eat until nearly midnight. After Bodie had dumped the dishes in the sink and squirted washing-up liquid around, they moved to the settee with fresh cans of beer, and Doyle put an Ella Fitzgerald record on.

Ms Fitzgerald suggested they build a stairway to the stars. Doyle, head swaying with the music, could see it - golden and glowing - starting just outside the window and disappearing above the trees.

“Ray. There’s something I have to tell you.”

Doyle turned, mouth slightly open.

“No need to look so serious. It’s just ... You said you wanted to know if I saw any women, and ...” He faltered as he saw Doyle’s expression set, then swallowed and continued. “Well, when I was working on that fur case the other month we checked up on a lot of fur shops. There was one in Bond Street that Petrie and I went into, and the woman who ran it was ... interested. I told her the shop’s security could be improved, but that was that.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this at the time?”

“Nothing to tell. At the time. But today she phoned HQ asking for me. Don’t think she knew my name, but she described me ...” He couldn’t stop a small smile, and Doyle’s eyes narrowed. “... and asked me to come round and give her advice on how she could improve the security of the shop. I took the call in the rest room, while Petrie and Taylor and some others were there. Petrie made it sound as if she was all over me in December - - which she wasn’t, OK? - so, I thought ...” He shrugged and sighed.

“Are you going to go round and see her?”

“Went this afternoon. It was OK. She _did_ want security advice, and she didn’t get into a strop when she found out I wasn’t interested in anything else. I won’t need to see her again. But -“

“- that’s not what you’ll tell the lads.”

“You got it. I’ll tell them I spent tonight at her place. If anyone asks later I’ll say we slept together a couple of times, and then she got fed up with being stood up, and showed me the door.”

“OK.” A resigned sigh. “What’s her name? Just in case.”

“Jennifer.”

“Jennifer. In Bond Street. Taylor won’t catch me out on that one.”

“I’m sorry, Ray.”

“Um. Thanks for telling me, anyway.”

Silence during the next track on the record.

“Why didn’t you sleep with her, if she wanted you?”

“You _joking_? It’s you I want. No one else. I’d never do it unless ... well ... Taylor was practically in the room, you know.”

“She must have been ... disappointed, at least.”

“Don’t think so. No more that you’d be if you lost 10p in a slot machine. She called ‘cos she was bored - fancied a bit of rough trade. Probably forgot all about me five minutes after I was out the door.”

Doyle, looking at him, couldn’t imagine how that would be possible. They went to bed before the record finished.

The next day, in the early evening, West got coffee for them both and they stopped in a side-street to drink it.

“What are you doing on Sunday night?” he asked, with no warning. Sunday was their weekly leave.

“Ah. Nothing.” Bodie was working all weekend, somewhere out of London - Doyle had lost track. “Why?”

“Well, there’s a group of us going out to a Lebanese restaurant in Kensington, and I wondered if you fancied coming along.”

“Yeah, OK. Thanks. Why Kensington, though? There’s a place just up the road.”

“It’s just round the corner from Barbara’s Hall of Residence.” A grin. “She gets really pissed off when I call it her section house.”

“What time Sunday?”

Scotland Yard interrupted before West could answer. They threw their coffee out of the window, Doyle did a U-turn, and the evening began in earnest.

* * * * *

On Sunday evening Doyle set off at half past six to meet West and the rest of the group in a pub in South Kensington. Terry was already there when he arrived, sitting at a table near the door with a woman who must surely be Barbara.

After he bought his round, he was introduced properly. Barbara was red-headed and freckled, and seemed self-contained and serious, though perfectly friendly. Doyle had half-expected that Terry would go for someone bouncy and giggly, but he didn’t know why, except that he’d been imagining someone who would encourage him in his “Dallas” recitals. But of course the impersonations were only part of his partner’s personality. Barbara probably appealed to the middle-aged part which was so concerned about the break-up of family life.

She was talking about the wedding of a friend, someone she and Terry had been at school with, describing the plans and the wedding politics with an enthusiasm that surprised Doyle, who wasn’t used to such traditionalism in people in their early twenties. But she and West both seemed to expect him to be as interested as they were in the protocol and conventions, so he nodded and made the right noises, fascinated on one level, and bored stiff on another.

After about twenty minutes another young policeman, Danny Glass, turned up with his girlfriend, Cathy. She sat down next to Doyle, and he discovered that she worked for a firm which hired displays of plants to offices and then maintained them. She was passionately boring (with no fascinating side) on the subject of the offices she’d been to that week, and the plants she’d tended, and the awful things people did to the plants.

After ten minutes of this, he was rescued when two more women joined the group, and, in the rearrangement of chairs, separated him from Cathy. They were Alison and Samantha (or Sam), trainee physiotherapists from Barbara’s course. Alison sat next to him. She was tall, with dark, shoulder-length hair, and a tan. The tan apparently came from a recent skiing holiday with some friends from the college. He asked about the holiday, and they were soon talking about sports in general, once she’d realised that he’d never skied. It was a vast improvement over exotic shrubs and seating plans for wedding breakfasts.

Shortly after eight they left the pub and walked to the restaurant in Kensington High Street. Doyle and Alison carried on talking during the walk, and sat next to each other once they reached the restaurant.

During the starter she described her course, and what she was planning to do when she finished, and he asked intelligent questions abut career progression and opportunities for travel. Her course finished in the summer, and she was hoping to find a job in Somerset, where she’d lived until she was twelve.

As the main course arrived she asked about his work, and the questions she asked - and some she didn’t ask - made him realise that she already knew a lot about him. _Great_.

If Terry and Barbara _had_ to play matchmakers, they could have done much worse, but he wasn’t sure he was ready for this. He studied Alison more closely, trying to decide what, if anything, she was expecting from him.

 _She’s interested. Yeah. She’s making a real effort. Listening properly. Laughing_.

An attractive woman. Good company, so far. She could do so much better than get mixed up with him and Bodie. But she would be perfect for them. Barbara and Terry would ensure that the story got around, and she would be leaving London in a few months so it couldn’t get too serious. If he didn’t follow this through, Bodie would go crazy (if he ever found out). What would an angry Bodie be like? He couldn’t really imagine. Not something you’d encourage, anyway.

The meal finished before closing time so they went to a nearby pub for a final drink. Doyle started to get slightly apprehensive.

 _Is she going to invite me up for coffee?_ Not with this crowd around, surely. It would be too blatant.

 _Should probably be asking for her ‘phone number._ He did nothing. _Just not ready for this. It’s such a shitty thing to do._

As it turned out, she didn’t seem to be expecting anything from him, though she smiled warmly and waved as he said goodbye at the door of the Halls of Residence. Definitely in with a chance, if he could ever bring himself to follow it up. He wanted to discuss this with Bodie, though he knew Bodie would just shrug, not understanding his scruples at all, and tell him to get on with it. _Any_ discussion would be better than none, with something this important.

* * * * *

On Monday evening, before work, he went round to Bodie’s flat. It was only the second time he’d been there since Christmas, and he was struck again by how good the Kandinsky print looked. It was only when Bodie handed him an orange juice that he noticed that the man’s right hand was covered in bandages.

“Christ! What happened?”

“I got caught up in some barbed wire.”

“Just your hand?”

“No, my shins caught it too. I’ll show you later,” and he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“Is it bad?”

“Nah. I’m off work till the hand heals up, though.”

An abrupt nod. “There was trouble at the weekend, was there?”

“A bit, yeah.” Equally abrupt. Bodie was obviously not going to elaborate.

Doyle wanted to ask, “Did you kill someone?” He couldn’t help wondering, always, when Bodie let anything slip about his work. It bordered on being an obsession for him, but he didn’t know why. He would never ask.

He told Bodie about Saturday night and Alison.

“She sounds perfect. Go for it.”

“I knew you’d say that. I don’t want to ‘go for it’ if I don’t have to, and I’m not sure I have to.”

“Why do you think Terry invited you along?”

It was like one of those questions teachers ask, specially designed to combine education with humiliation. Doyle answered in the standard tone - plodding and exasperated. “Because he’s trying to set me up with Alison. Because he thinks I need a girlfriend. If he’s heard about Melanie, because he thinks I’m pining for her.”

Bodie was nodding. “So far you’ve been safe, because he likes you. But if you don’t make a play for this girl, he might change his mind, or talk to people who don’t like you as much as he does.”

“I don’t have to sleep with every girl I sit next to in a restaurant, do I? Can’t I just say she’s not my type?”

“Can if you like. Is she?”

“She’s fine. If I wasn’t ... with you, I’d have fixed up a date already. But ... what we’ve got is so ...” He swallowed. He’d never told Bodie about the heat-trace. “It’s wrong to bring anyone else in. I don’t know how you can even think about it.”

“It’s necessary, Ray. If we don’t, we could lose it all.”

Doyle ignored him and stared at the carpet, frowning. After about a minute he suddenly cheered up. “Of course, she might not be interested in me. I mean, she didn’t ask for my phone number or anything.”

“Doesn’t mean anything. She’d never turn you down.”

Strange kind of compliment, from a lover. Still, he smiled, and prepared to compromise, now that he’d talked. “Always a first time. Look, if Terry says she’s asking after me, I’ll ... go for it. OK?”

“OK.”

* * * * *

That night Doyle took the initiative and mentioned Sunday night first, thanking West for the invitation.

“You were getting on well with Alison, I saw. She’s a nice girl, isn’t she?”

“Yeah, very nice.” A pause. “Is she ... um ... going out with anyone at the moment?”

“Not as far as I know. If fact ...” A broad smile. “Barbara said she was asking after you.”

“Oh!” He tried to sound pleased and a bit surprised. “You couldn’t get her ‘phone number for me, could you?”

“Already know it. Same as Barbara’s.” West wrote it out for him, along with the address of the hall. “You’ll have to be patient if you do phone. It’s worse than the section house.”

* * * * *

Bodie was up when Doyle went round after work, but not washed or dressed. He was wandering around in a dressing gown looking very fed up. The hand was hurting, with a sharp, sickening pain - not that he would admit that to Doyle - and now that it had woken him up, he was discovering just how much he used it for. He moaned about all the difficulties while making coffee one-handed, and Doyle found himself agreeing to come over every morning and help him get washed and dressed.

It was actually the shins which posed the greatest problems: a hand can be held out of the way easily enough, but not the shins. By the time Bodie was clean to his satisfaction, the dressings were damp and uncomfortable. Doyle changed them, and tried to hide his shock at the sight of the long gashes, made even uglier by black stitches.

“It looks far worse than it is, Ray.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Afterwards, Doyle made bacon sarnies while Bodie stood in the doorway watching and drinking coffee.

“How was CI5 expecting you to feed yourself? I’m surprised they didn’t get you a nurse.”

A grimace. “Well, Cowley _did_ suggest something like that, but I said -“

“No, Ray’ll be delighted to play Florence Nightingale!”

“Close. I said Jennifer would.”

“Jennifer from Bond Street?”

Bodie nodded.

“And they didn’t check up on that?”

Bodie averted his face and rubbed his left hand over his hair. “No, well, it’s happened before.”

Doyle found himself laughing. “You must have known some women who were real suckers.”

A crooked smile and a shrug. “Think they got a kick out of seeing me helpless.”

“Mmm. Kinky.” Doyle raised his eyebrows in exaggerated interest.

Another shrug. “Common enough, isn’t it?”

* * * * *

Over breakfast, Doyle described the night’s developments in the matter of Alison, while Bodie nodded, pleased. Now Doyle was developing another complaint against him in this whole business: What about a decent show of jealousy? Didn’t Bodie care? He wanted to hear _Bodie_ say, “You’re mine. I say what you do with your cock.” What would he do then? Just agree, like Bodie had, or argue, act indignation? He wasn’t sure, but he wanted the chance to find out.

When he was angry with Bodie like this, it always seemed to take him the same way - between the legs.

“Let’s go to bed.” He interrupted Bodie’s survey of the week ahead. “I’ll help you wash again, and everything.”

The anger faded after a few minutes in the bedroom. Bodie was _so_ awkward with that hand and those shins, and so serious as they talked over what they could do. In the end, after some experimentation, they lay on their right sides, and sucked one other off, something they hadn’t done in many months.

“I liked that.” Doyle’s eyes were closed, his voice dreamy.

“Yes.” Breathed out in a long sigh.

It would be many more months, though, before they would do it again. The next time Bodie was injured. Or if they ran out of lubricant. But Bodie probably had a year’s supply.

Crazy to complain about being fucked, when it was always so good. But Doyle could remember - so clearly - each time they hadn’t. Sweet times. With no shadows.

* * * * *

On Wednesday morning Doyle called Alison from Bodie’s flat (while Bodie busied himself in the bedroom, behind closed doors) and managed to get through to her before she left for her classes. He had tried the night before, but the line had been permanently engaged.

She sounded pleased to hear from him, and agreed without hesitation when he suggested that they meet on the coming Sunday - the first day of his long weekly leave - though she vetoed the idea of meeting in the same pub in South Kensington, and instead invited herself round to his flat. He gave her the address, the time was set for six thirty, and that was that.

Bodie reappeared. Doyle was surprised to discover that he’d forgotten him for the whole course of the conversation. It had been like arranging any other date. Maybe he _could_ cope with this after all.

* * * * *

Wednesday evening was fire-arms practice, which was as ever, except for some talk about the possibility that a full-time squad might be set up. There had been a recent spate of sieges (two being enough for a spate in politicians’ mathematics) which had happened while Doyle was not on call.

Doyle thought that, on balance, he would be happy to give up the squad if they did set up this smaller, full-time group. He wouldn’t be putting himself forward for it, and they couldn’t force him to join it. Could they?

Over the last year he’d been getting more and more fed up with the squad. Maybe it was boredom - he hadn’t seen any action in the whole year. And maybe it was contact with CI5, killing any lingering ideas that he was cut out for a life of high-drama and violence. Yes, he could _do_ it, but why make himself unhappy just to prove some stupid point?

* * * * *

On Thursday evening Doyle didn’t go round to Bodie’s before work. Bodie had some colleagues coming round for some serious drinking. Instead, he stir-fried some chicken and vegetables, as a practice for the Chinese meal he’d decided to give Alison on Sunday.

The CI5 men had obviously made an evening of it, to judge by the cans, bottles, pizza cartons, and empty plates decorating Bodie’s flat on Friday morning. Doyle opened a window, and then started dealing with the cleaner bits of debris, though he didn’t know why he was helping. Bodie had been up and dressed when he arrived, so the hand could presumably cope with some basic housework.

Bodie seemed unaware of the mess. His mind was on other things, mainly on a Mr. Anson, who had been present at last night’s debauchery. “God knows, _I_ didn’t invite him. Murph should have known better than to let him know they were coming over.” He picked up a plate absently, and put it in the kitchen.

“He’s _such_ a dickhead, Ray. And I’ve met a few in my time. You know, one of those who _has_ to have his say on everything, whether he knows anything or not. If he met ... Laurence Olivier, he wouldn’t shut up and listen. No, he’d go on and on about how good he was in his school plays, and how everyone said he was a natural. Dickhead!” Another plate taken to the kitchen. Maybe tomorrow they’d find their way to the sink.

Over the next few minutes Doyle gathered that Murphy had gauged the state of Bodie’s temper, and had brought the evening to an early close just in time. He listened to the monologue as he collected beer cans, nodding when it seemed required, but with a slight frown bunching his eyebrows.

The rant _had_ its amusing side, if you considered that Anson sounded like Bodie himself at his worst, such as in front of a police inspector. But that itself had a disturbing after-taste. And more disturbing was this ugly, angry Bodie. Few people are improved by a snarl, but it took just a twitch of the nostrils to turn Bodie’s fine features brutish. He avoided looking at him, using the tidying-up as an excuse.

When Bodie had finished Doyle said, “Well, if there’s nothing you need I might as well go. I want to do some shopping for the weekend.”

“But you’ve only just got here.”

“Your hand’s obviously working again - you don’t need me. I’ve got things to do.”

“Oh.” Bodie seemed taken aback. He looked intently at Doyle, but said only, “Stay for a cup of tea, at least. The shops won’t be open yet. How was work last night?”

Doyle shrugged and answered, and stayed for a mug of tea, but he sat apart from Bodie, and his talk was brisk and factual. He left without a goodbye kiss, and without making any definite arrangements for when they would meet again. In the last few minutes Bodie had been very subdued - he had barely smiled when Doyle left.

_Probably disappointed he didn’t get me to scrub his back or do the washing up. All that pent-up energy - he might as well do something with it, the lazy git._

* * * * *

Doyle spent Sunday afternoon preparing the Chinese meal for the evening. He enjoyed all the careful details, and found he was ... almost looking forward to the meal itself. Bodie was banished from his thoughts - relatively easy, since he hadn’t seen him since Friday morning.

A tension started building as the sky grew dark. Quite pleasant, really, the thrill of anticipation. He tidied the flat, then changed the record and turned the volume up so that he could listen to Rickie Lee Jones while he was in the shower.

As he shaved, he noticed Bodie’s toothbrush on the shelf under the mirror, and wondered if he ought to hide it. Was it really a clue? Did it matter? He put it in the drawer in the bedroom where he kept miscellaneous junk like thread, and buttons, and gloves, and lubricant.

Alison was punctual and carrying a bottle of wine. Under her winter coat she was wearing a dress of navy blue with white piping, which showed off her tan and the lustre of her hair. She looked fresh and attractive, but slightly formal, and Doyle had a sudden feeling of self-consciousness.

He rode out the initial awkwardness by busying himself with putting the wine in the fridge and getting them both drinks. Alison wandered around the living room, unashamedly nosy, checking out his bookcases and his small collection of video tapes (uninformative, since he wasn’t scrupulous about labelling them). When he handed her the dry sherry she was examining his shooting trophies.

“You didn’t mention these the other night.”

They’d talked about almost every other sport they’d ever tried. She’d even mentioned the three weeks of rowing that had taught her that there was a limit to how much time and effort she would devote to any single activity.

“Didn’t I?” He looked serious. “I guess because it’s not really _sport_ for me.”

“You’re a police marksman.”

He couldn’t tell if it was a question or a statement, but he’d heard that tone of interest and speculation before, sometimes followed by questions about how many people he’d shot. He ought to hide the trophies away, but the skill was part of what he was, and he enjoyed the reminder of the competitions.

“Yes, but I don’t get called out very often. It’s not as exciting as it sounds. You spend half the day standing round in the rain, and then the bloke gives himself up and you’re soaked to the skin and working on an ulcer with the adrenalin you never had any use for.”

She laughed. “Doesn’t sound very glamorous, no.”

She dropped the subject and asked him about his week, and they conversed easily, much as they had the previous Sunday. There was none of the excited animation of people who are in the process of discovering that they’re soulmates - they didn’t keep on interrupting each other with “Yes, yes, that’s it exactly” or “But that’s my favourite, too” - but they didn’t find themselves racking their brains for what to say next.

The meal was a success - Alison predicted that she would be dreaming about the chili prawns for weeks to come, and Doyle gathered that was intended as a compliment. When he produced the Chinese buns and tea, she suggested they move to the sofa, and he started the serious agonizing about whether he should make a move this evening. It was exactly the same quality of agonizing as on other first dates; he’d swung into the old, familiar routine, and had (almost) forgotten that there was anything different about this night.

He was certainly interested in taking things further. Alison was exactly the kind of leggy, self-assured woman he usually went for, and he could almost feel the blood vessels in his erogenous zones flexing, revving-up, waiting for the signal to go. What about Alison, though? Well, if she hadn’t made up her mind by now, chances were the answer was always going to be no. Go for it, as someone had told him recently.

He joined her on the sofa and poured the jasmine tea into the tiny cups.

She watched him carefully, and, as she took her cup, she said, “You’re quite a surprise, you know.”

“Oh?”

“Well, when Barbara told me Terry had this new partner who’d been on the beat for about ten years, I imagined ... well, you know.

“Then when he said you were a marksman, and you’d just come back from a job in Africa ... well, I thought he’d been watching too much ‘Dallas’, got bored with real life. But I’m starting to realise that it’s probably all true. And you’re a great cook, too.”

He smiled, sure it would be OK to make a move that night. “He does watch too much ‘Dallas’. Have you heard his Sue Ellen impression?” and they talked about Terry and Barbara for the next half hour.

The tea ran out, and when he came back into the sitting room with a fresh pot, she smiled up at him, and he knew it was time. He poured, and when he sat back he moved to put an arm around her. The dress was linen, crisp and dry, and inside it her shoulder felt firm and warm.

“You just beat me to it.” She turned her head.

The first kiss was ... polite, the second more confident. Gradually Doyle let his hands go exploring. The feeling of her breasts was a shock, after over a year. He didn’t think that, consciously, but his body knew, and sent express couriers rushing from his hand to his groin with the news.

It didn’t take them long to move to the bedroom. Immediately after he suggested it, Doyle asked her about contraception. As he’d expected, she was on the pill.

The sex was good - two people being kind to each other and finding pleasure. Different from the mind-stunning passion he’d become used to, but he was not making any comparisons (not consciously).

As they talked and cuddled after the first time, Doyle’s mind was thinking, in the background, about fucking, about tight, warm holes. It had seemed so important, for so long. Was that inevitable, or just habit? He had energy and inclination enough to experiment sometime later, and it seemed that it wasn’t inevitable, at least for this two.

Alison voiced no complaints or disappointment as he brought her to orgasm with gentle lips and tongue, and long, clever fingers. She was salty and wet, and her blood-engorged flesh seemed to simmer against his mouth like a perfectly-cooked casserole. Soon, _her_ mouth and fingers made it just as good as the first time.

Afterwards. “You’re definitely a surprise.”

“Mmm?”

“I thought policemen were only taught the missionary position.”

“It’s only a job.” The edge in his voice was blunted by sleepy contentment. “It doesn’t determine everything about me.”

“No. Sorry,” she said, not convincingly. This discussion would obviously be repeated and continued later.

* * * * *

In the morning they took their time getting up, and had the remaining Chinese buns for breakfast with coffee. As he contemplated the rest of the day, he realised that he wanted very much to be alone.

“What time’s your first class?”

“Oh. Not till this afternoon.”

 _Oh, hell._ He started working out the details of an elderly relative who needed visiting.

But Alison was looking at her watch. “I’ll have to go in about half an hour, though. If I don’t make a start on this essay now, it’ll ruin the rest of the week.”

“D’you want a lift back to college?” Relief made him generous.

“No, thanks. Be quicker by tube.”

“Mmm. We gonna do this again?”

“Hope so.” Energetically.

“When, then?”

“Same time next week?”

“Well ... I’ll be on earlies. Out of the house by half six.”

She shrugged. “Do me good. Should I come round earlier, too. Five?”

As he heard her heels clattering down the stairs, he gave a sigh, and put the kettle on for some more coffee. This could all get very complicated. He’d have to start keeping a diary. How much of his time was she going to take up? Two days a week? Too much, anyway.

Now that she was out of sight, he found he’d be perfectly happy if she stayed there. Nothing personal. But he didn’t need sex with her, didn’t need her company. Not like he needed Bodie. Of course, these last few hours hadn’t been a painful chore, but if she called and told him they’d never be repeated ... he’d say, “Oh, OK,” and feel nothing but relief. Not like with Bodie.

What he really wanted ... Just Bodie. Even when the man was ranting about Anson. If only, when Terry invited him for the meal, he could have said, “Yes, thanks. Is it OK if I bring my lover along? I don’t think he’s working then.”

Hah. If only.

Oh, God, Terry was probably going to start arranging double dates, and as Alison’s boyfriend he’d get dragged along on college trips to bowling alleys and “Queen” concerts and so on. He felt very old and very tired.

He took his fresh mug of coffee to the ‘phone. Bodie was in - still on sick leave - and Doyle invited himself round.

* * * * *

“So, how d’you get on last night?”

“Fine. Same again next Sunday.” That was all Bodie was going to get.

“Good lad.”

 _You don’t care, do you? Or are you too cool to show it? Got the CI5 image to worry about._ “So how’s the hand and everything?”

“Good.” He held the hand up, now unbandaged. “Shins are pulling a bit when I walk, but I should get the stitches out tomorrow. Went for a drive yesterday. I was starting to go stir crazy. How was your weekend?”

They were sitting on the sofa drinking tea. Between mouthfuls, Bodie licked his injured hand. Doyle broke off his description of a call to a pub on Saturday night, hopelessly distracted. “Should you be doing that? And shouldn’t you be wearing a dressing?” The sight of the stitches unnerved him - a foreign presence inside Bodie’s body.

Bodie looked surprised, as if he hadn’t been aware of what he’d been doing. He took his hand from his mouth and looked at it. “It came off.”

“Should you be licking it like that? What if it gets infected?”

“It’s healed. I heal quickly.”

 He extended his hand, and Doyle took it. It seemed a long time since they’d touched. The wound had closed, and the scab had mostly fallen away, showing pink, swollen new skin.

“It itches a bit, that’s all. It’s better than scratching it.”

“Is it itching now?”

A nod. Doyle bent his head and touched a saliva-laden tongue lightly to the wound. It tasted of salt and Bodie’s mouth. The stitches were rough and springy. Bodie leant against him, eyes closed. “Oh. Don’t stop.”

Doyle continued, licking around the edges to avoid the stitches. Eventually, though, he returned the hand to its owner. “Is it really going to be OK?”

“Yeah. I _was_ lucky, must admit. But couple of weeks office duty and physio and you’d never know it happened. I’ve had far worse than this, Ray. You too, you know.”

Doyle nodded in agreement and the subject was dropped, although Bodie remained propped against him, licking absently.

Shortly, Bodie asked him again how things had gone with Alison. “I’m not going to give you any details. So you can stop asking.”

“Don’t want them. Just want some idea of how this is going to turn out.”

“Alright, I think. Could take up a lot of my time, you know. She’s not going to just slot in round the shifts like you do.”

“I know. But it’s only till June, isn’t it? We’ll cope.”

Again, Doyle was bewildered by Bodie’s matter-of-fact attitude, and this time he couldn’t let it go. “How do you feel about me sleeping with Alison, Bodie?”

Bodie frowned. “We’ve been through all this. You have to do it to ...”

The policeman interrupted. “No. Not what you think. What you _feel_. You act as if you just don’t care.”

“You mean, am I jealous?” said Bodie quietly. Doyle couldn’t read his expression.

“Yes. Are you?”

For a long time they looked at one another. Doyle’s lower jaw stayed pushed forward in aggressive determination. Bodie’s eyes hardened, and Doyle could hear his breathing. He looked dangerous, looked as if he was about to change into ... a were-panther. Doyle wasn’t frightened.

“Yes, I am.” Eventually.

Doyle smiled, having got what he wanted, and then found himself held down against the sofa, Bodie kneeling over him.

“You think it’s funny, do you?” and the dark, angry man took control of his mouth. He’d wondered how he would react to something like this, and now he knew. Not simple acceptance, not indignation. Excitement.

Soon they were naked on the floor, wrestling with as much abandon as the furniture and Bodie’s stitches would allow. When Bodie manoeuvred him onto his stomach, Doyle gasped, realising that this was what he wanted, and he spread his legs, presenting himself. His buttocks were immediately spread further apart, and he felt an urgent mouth moistening him, and then there was the sound of Bodie spitting. When Bodie slid swiftly into him, he was more eager than he’d ever been.

* * * * *

Afterwards, he thought it had been like some of their couplings in the desert when they had been travelling to Brija, and he wondered if Bodie had loved him even then. He turned over, feeling slightly sore (but not complaining), and met Bodie’s eyes, which immediately avoided his. The man looked exhausted and shaken, sweat feathering the hair at his temples. He reached out and combed his fingers through the hair, enjoying the resistance of the curls that Bodie discouraged so ruthlessly.

“No, I don’t think it’s funny.”

Bodie’s eyes flicked up briefly. “I don’t blame you,” he said sadly. “I’m sorry.”

Doyle continued his caress. “I don’t think it’s funny that you’re jealous. I’m glad, because that’s exactly what I feel. I want to lock you away, so that no one else will ever see you, ever want you again.”

Bodie looked at him in silence. Maybe he shouldn’t have hidden this for so long. But he’d been frightened by his own feelings, thought Ray would be too. He drew him into a kiss, gentle this time because he _did_ want to apologise.

Many minutes later he said, “This can’t make any difference to ... to what we do, Ray. We have to make sure we’re safe. And I think we should just ... accept it and not ...” He swallowed. “We can’t do this every time.”

“I wouldn’t complain,” he said lightly, as more reassurance, not as argument. “How are the shins? Still pulling?”

* * * * *

They spent most of Doyle’s weekly leave together - it was like an unexpected holiday. Bodie went to the doctor on Tuesday to get the stitches taken out, but was told that the tissue was too swollen still, and to come back on Friday. Normally this would have made him very impatient - impatient enough to get some tweezers and take the stitches out himself - but this time he was relieved, since it meant a few more days away from work and with Ray. They drove, walked, talked, and made love. They were quietly happy.

At work on Thursday, West waited about half an hour before asking about Sunday night. Doyle had almost forgotten about Alison, so there was a second’s pause before he said it had been a good evening and they would be doing it again.

Bodie finally got rid of his stitches on Friday, and spent most of the day at the hospital and at HQ. Starting Monday, he’d be working on one of those data-assessment jobs that Cowley always seemed to have waiting for the convalescent - reading reports, and writing more, as if there weren’t enough in the world already.

When CI5 had finished with him, he went round to Ray’s flat, and stayed there until midday Sunday. Ray had told him to be gone before the end of early shift, wanting no distractions while he got ready for Alison.

But he was back again on Monday night, assuming he’d be staying for the rest of the week, as he normally did when not out of town or confined to his flat. They were in bed when Doyle told him that he would be spending Wednesday night at Alison’s.

“Oh. I thought you’d fixed it as a regular Sunday thing.”

Shrug. “I’m on lates next Sunday. We had to work something else out. Wednesday’s my weekly leave. We’re going to see a film or something.”

“I thought she lived in a hostel.”

“Hall of Residence, they call it.”

“And they’ll let you stay the night? I thought they were really strict. Like a convent.”

A shake of the head. “Not any more, she said. Just try to discourage you with really narrow beds.”

“You’ll be back on Thursday, though?”

“Past eleven. You know lates.”

* * * * *

Alison’s last lecture on Wednesday finished at five thirty, and Doyle called for her at the Hall just after six. It was just like the section house, except the rooms were even smaller. She had done well with hers - the Liberty print duvet cover, the variety of Thai silk cushions, and the Impressionist prints were colourful and welcoming without being overwhelming.

Doyle supposed it was something that women were just good at - turning a space into a home. He’d known men who’d lived in the section house for a year without leaving any signs of their personality in their room other than a collection of beer cans by the bin and a Bo Derek poster on the wall.

She made them a coffee, and they studied her copy of “Time Out” looking for an entertainment they could both agree on. The Paris Pullman off Fulham Road was having a Marilyn Monroe season, and “Some Like it Hot” and “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes” were on that day. Alison was an MM fan (which surprised Doyle, since he’d always supposed women must be jealous of her), and she was keen to see “Some Like it Hot” in the cinema. The film started at nine, and they decided to skip the other film and eat instead. On the way out they met Barbara, who was polite but not chatty. Doyle knew she was supposed to be meeting Terry that evening, but she didn’t mention the fact.

As the two of them walked to Fulham Road to find a restaurant, Doyle said, “She seemed very quiet. I’d got the impression she was the bubbly sort.”

“Usually, yeah. I think she’s sulking at the force at the moment. It’s the shifts. Terry missed her birthday the other month because of lates - second time running - and she won’t let him - or me - forget about it. They go through this a couple of times a year. I dunno about Terry’s side of things, but _she_ can be pretty moody. And she likes a lot of attention. This is a mild sulk compared with some I’ve seen.” She paused. “I suppose that sounds pretty bitchy, but ... I’ve spent just too long listening to her moaning about the same problems, and never getting anything sorted out.”

Doyle raised his eyebrows. “Terry always makes it sound as if everything’s great between them. Though he has been talking recently about putting in for a nine to five job. SOCO, or something.”

“Well, I hope he does. She’s very boring when she’s like this. I want her back to normal.”

They ate in an informal, pine-panelled restaurant called Parsons - a favourite of Alison’s, but new to Doyle - and talked about films and Marilyn Monroe.

It was enjoyable and interesting, but at one point Doyle started to feel a bit lost, and, frankly, a bit stupid. They were talking about “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes” (a film he barely remembered), and Alison started comparing it with the Anita Loos book (one he’d never read), and speculating as to the reasons for the differences.

This was more analysis than he was used to giving to films, or indeed to any artform. When he’d done English Literature “O” Level, you got an “A” grade if you could remember the plot of “The Mayor of Casterbridge”, quote a few lines from “Macbeth”, and come up with six examples of Keat’s “vividly descriptive language”; no attempt was made to empathise with the writer, or to speculate as to why, for instance, Hardy wrote about what he did, or why the book took the form it did.

When Alison noticed that Ray wasn’t contributing anything to the discussion, she guessed she was boring him, and changed the subject. A little later he asked her what “A” levels she’d done, and didn’t seem surprised when she replied: “English, French and Biology.” He then asked why she hadn’t gone to university. She’d gone through this so many times with her friends, teachers and relatives that it was almost a reflex response, and she could hear her voice acquiring a droning note as she explained that she wasn’t academic, that she didn’t want to spend three years studying something she’d never use again, and that her elder sister’s rapturous descriptions of studying PPE at Oxford had made her want to throw up and had made up her mind for her.

“What’s PPE?”

“Philosophy, Politics, and Economics.”

“Oh,” he said, opening his eyes wide so they seemed almost completely round. Extraordinary eyes, she thought.

“Precisely.”

She then asked him about his “A” levels, knowing as the words formed that it might be a mistake. Though she’d always been indignant about articles in “Jackie” and other girls’ magazines which told girls to pretend to be more stupid than they were so as not to frighten off boys, she’d come to the conclusion that men did have delicate little egos, and even an apparently well-balanced specimen such as Ray Doyle might react badly to being upstaged. He seemed happy enough, though, to say he didn’t have any, and that he’d joined the force at the earliest possible opportunity.

“What made you so sure you wanted to join? Was your father a policeman or something?”

He grimaced slightly and she wondered if she’d made another mistake, but then decided it had been for theatrical effect as he explained how, at the age of fourteen he’d been caught shoplifting by a local bobby.

“He was the father of a mate of mine from school, and I think he decided I was basically OK, just going through a rough patch. So instead of really coming down hard on me, he took me to the nick for a talking to and a bit of a scare. And I loved it.”

“What?”

He shrugged. “It sounds stupid. But it was fascinating. All these people wandering in and out. All these little ... stories. So a few days later I asked him about joining and he arranged for me to spend a day at the station and I was hooked. I joined as a cadet at sixteen. They’re thinking about stopping that now, say it’s too young - but I think it was right for me.”

“And you still enjoy it.”

“Yeah. Though -“ A shrug and a lop-sided smile. “- the shifts _are_ worth sulking about.”

* * * * *

The cinema was surprisingly full; obviously there were lots of people in London who wanted to see “Some Like it Hot” on the big screen. Doyle had only seen it twice, the first time at the Arnold’s when he was about 13, and the second time five years ago. It wasn’t a favourite of his, and he wouldn’t have come along on his own, or with Bodie. His memories of it centred on a particular dress that Monroe almost wore, rather than on the story.

Maybe he’d been too young before, or just not concentrating. Maybe the film needed the cinema. He was glad Alison had insisted. Until the last few minutes, or rather the last three words.

 _“Well, nobody’s perfect.”_ He laughed, as he’d laughed the other two times. Well, it _was_ funny, the old man reacting so calmly when he finds out that the person he’s engaged to is a man. Then he noticed how hard everyone else was laughing. And he stopped.

What was it that _they_ were finding funny? It was the very idea of homosexuality, which to them had so little to do with love that it could only be a punch-line in a farce (when it wasn’t a disease or a threat).

As the credits rolled and the applause faded, he became more convinced of that, and felt alone, and exposed, and in need of Bodie’s company. He was here with Alison because he wanted to be with Bodie. It was crazy.

To stop himself thinking about it he turned to Alison. “Well, was it as good as you remembered?”

“Better. I don’t think I’ll ever get bored with this film. I must have seen it ten times, and it makes me feel fantastic every time. What about you?”

He nodded. “Mmm. Don’t think I could see it ten times, though.”

There was a pause as they gathered up their coats and shuffled out of the cinema. Out on the street he asked, “What do you want to do now?”

She looked at her watch. “There’s time to get back to your place. I mean, you’ve _seen_ the bed ...”

He smiled, but distantly. It might not be safe to go home. Bodie might be there. But he couldn’t very well ‘phone to check. “No, I’ll risk it. Show me some more of South Ken.”

So she led him to a wine bar in a cellar, and they stayed there until closing time, and then wandered back to the Hall.

Alison’s first lecture on Thursday morning was at ten, and Doyle got home just after eleven. Bodie _had_ spent the night - there was a note on Doyle’s pillow asking what he fancied eating that evening.

West was in a grim mood that afternoon, which Doyle attributed entirely to Barbara. He mentioned meeting her at the Hall, and asked about their evening, but just got a grunt and, “Went for a meal. Nothing special.” Obviously Terry was not going to tell him the full story, which was largely a relief, though he was curious. He wanted to _know_ but he didn’t want the effort of listening.


	8. Heat-Trace - Chapter 6

## Chapter 6

On Friday night, Bodie said, “You meeting her this Wednesday, too?”

“Probably. We hadn’t sorted anything out.”

“Uh. Would she be OK if you put it off?”

“’xpect so. Why?”

“I thought we might go to my place for a change. Have a meal in town.”

“You getting homesick?”

“No. Just - don’t see you much when we’re both working.”

Doyle thought, _Is he jealous of the time I spend with Alison? Wants the same for himself?_ He said, “We should take a holiday together. Do you _get_ holidays in CI5?”

Eventually they picked a week in June, that they would defend against all threats. Doyle suggested going away somewhere - just in Britain - but Bodie pointed out the problems of booking a double-bed. They would stay in London, in Bodie’s flat, probably.

Doyle booked his holiday the next day, in one of the few quiet moments. It was one of the worst Saturdays in a while, made no easier by West’s mood. Apparently he’d been round to Barbara’s that morning, and she’d just dragged him along on her Saturday morning round of Waitrose and Barker’s and half the shoe shops along Kensington High Street. Doyle wondered how much longer the pair would last.

As he trudged home, he was looking forward to falling into a warm, Bodie-filled bed, and going straight to sleep. But Bodie was not in the bed, he was in the kitchen.

“You’re not cooking, are you?” Doyle asked through a yawn.

“Not really. Just making coffee.”

There was a thermos flask by the cafetière. Doyle pointed to it. “If you’re planning a midnight picnic, count me out.”

“I wasn’t thinking of a picnic.”

“What _were_ you thinking of, then?” Mild impatience.

“There’s an all-night horror thing on at the Scala. Sounded fun, but if you’re not in the mood ...”

Doyle thought about it. Was this another sign of Bodie being jealous of Alison? “I’ll fall asleep.”

“OK. It was just a thought.” He switched off the kettle. Doyle leaned over and turned it back on.

“Make it strong. I’ll liven up after a few cups. What time does this thing start?”

“About five minutes ago.”

“Give me a few minutes to change.”

By the time he was in his jeans and washed, Bodie had made the coffee and stowed it in a Sainsbury’s bag with some cans of beer and some sandwiches. They took Bodie’s car to King’s Cross, and arrived ten minutes into the first film, “Halloween”. Once their eyes had adjusted, they headed for a near-empty section away from the door.

The other nocturnal horror-addicts were sparsely-distributed dark shapes on the steep bank of seats. Doyle wished he could see them more clearly - what sort of people would come to the cinema at midnight? _People like me and Bodie?_ No, they couldn’t all be coppers out with their lovers.

But if he couldn’t see his neighbours, it meant that they couldn’t see him. They might almost have been alone, but for the laughter, and the gasps, and the hissings of drinks’ cans. Bodie poured him a coffee, and opened a beer for himself. They leaned against one another, and when Doyle reached over and took Bodie’s hand, the grip was returned, and there was no angry lecture about CI5 Internal Security. It was the first time they’d touched in public since that day in the caff. Doyle forgot his exhaustion.

After two films they gave up. It had been fun, but they’d finished their supplies, it was getting cold, and Doyle’s bum had gone numb. On the way back to the flat and then in bed, they talked about horror, and in particular about films that had made an impression on them as children. Bodie described a werewolf film with great affection. Doyle was amused, but was also aware that this was only the second time that Bodie had mentioned his past - or the third if you counted SAS exercises on oil rigs.

When Bodie was asleep, he lay next to him, pressed close, thinking about how little they knew about one another. He wanted to know everything about his lover, but was afraid to ask, afraid of causing pain, knowing that Bodie’s memories were worse than either of the films they’d just seen. Maybe Bodie didn’t ask for the same reasons. Maybe he assumed that everyone was escaping from their childhood.

Or maybe he just didn’t care. Alison had showed more curiosity in three dates than Bodie had in nearly a year. She’d asked what had led him to the force. Bodie hadn’t. Bodie showed almost no interest in his work, beyond asking how the day or the week had gone. _You’d have thought he’d want to know, so he could try to persuade me to join CI5. But ... no. He’s never mentioned it since that first time. Am I being taken for granted?_ It didn’t seem likely, when Bodie took so much effort in other areas, like the letters, and like tonight. The idea was an oddity, not a nagging worry, and Doyle was soon asleep too.

* * * * *

“You’re grinning like an idiot. What’s the joke?” It was Wednesday evening, and the first time he’d seen Bodie since Sunday.

Bodie held up his scarred hand. “I’m back to work. Real work.”

“Great.” Without much enthusiasm - what with Alison, CI5 and the force, they’d be lucky if they saw each other once a month. “When d’you start?”

“I’ve started. Had the medical Monday morning.”

“Working the last couple of evenings, were you?”

“Yeah. Supposed to be on duty now, but I swapped.”

“Well, we’d better make the most of it then.”

“That’s what _I_ thought.” Bodie had already booked a table in a French restaurant in Covent Garden for eight, and he was planning on cocktails at the Savoy beforehand.

Doyle blinked - he’d have thought this was Bodie’s last idea of a good night out. “I can’t go like this.” He was in his jeans and leather jacket. “You should have warned me. We’ll have to go to my place so I can change.”

“Ah. Well, I wanted it to be a surprise. Would have spoilt it if I’d warned you.” Bodie was heading for the bedroom. “Anyway, you can borrow some of my stuff.”

“Bodie, it won’t fit.”

“You’re not that much smaller than me. I’ve got some stuff here that might do,” and he rifled through the wardrobe, chucking jackets and trousers onto the bed. “Try that lot.”

While Bodie was in the shower, Doyle sorted through the mess on the bed. To his surprise he found a charcoal-grey number that fitted, and that he looked almost human in. It would have been straining at the seams on Bodie, though, and he wondered how the man had come to buy it, unless he’d never even tried it on beforehand. As he stood looking at himself in the mirror, he had the growing suspicion that Bodie had bought this suit especially for him, maybe especially for this evening. _Why didn’t he just give it to me as a present, then? Why this business of pretending it’s a cast-off?_

Maybe this was Bodie’s idea of being tactful. Maybe it _was_ true that his blue suit made him look like a Soho record producer, as Ann (and others) had insisted. He’d never seen the point in getting another one, since he’d wear it maybe once a year. But he wasn’t sure he liked Bodie’s tact - it felt more like charity and condescension.

He let himself into the bathroom, ready for an argument, but Bodie was still in the shower, and wouldn’t have heard a word. Doyle waited just inside the door, and watched the blurred figure through the shower curtain. The anger faded.

“That looks great. Told you we weren’t that different.”

 _Oh, leave it, Doyle. He does mean well._ “Yeah.” A small smile, and a nod, and he carried on watching as Bodie towelled himself dry, standing inches away in the small room. He could smell the sweetness of soap on his lover’s skin, see the cock swinging with the brisk movements. Bodie was still slightly damp when Doyle stepped forward, and drew him into a deep kiss.

Bodie’s hands rested very gently on the wool, just enough to feel the contours of Doyle’s shoulder-blade and of his pelvis. What was it about the man that made you aware of every inch of his body, even through these layers of fabric? He seemed so at ease with it, could never once have been ashamed of it or frightened of it. Bodie envied him, and admired him, and felt some of that ease flow into his own body whenever they touched. He liked being naked against him like this, warmed by the idea that Ray was seeing him in the cool daytime world, and _still_ wanted him, still chose him, and excited by the wool prickling against his groin and his thighs. Something for another time, not this evening. He drew back.

* * * * *

Doyle was used to Bodie’s more-formal style of dress, but he’d never seen him like this before. It wasn’t full evening dress, but the effect was similar, and it suited him. He seemed perfectly in place at the American Bar at the Savoy, or at least until he spoke - Noel Coward would not have approved of his accent. At the moment he was opening his mouth only to shovel olives and salted almonds into it. Doyle felt left behind, and as out-of-place as he had in the restaurant with Alison. And who was Bodie trying to kid?

“How did you get a taste for all this then? Or is it part of the James Bond image? I’m surprised you didn’t ask for a vodka Martini, shaken not stirred.”

“Don’t you like it here?” Bodie had not missed the edge in Ray’s voice. Maybe he should have consulted him before arranging all this. “I’m sorry. We can go to a pub if you’d rather.”

 _You’re a shit, Raymond Doyle. He’s not trying to prove anything. He just wants a special evening out. With you._ “No, it’s great.” Looking into his eyes and smiling. “Just not used to it. Surprised you are, actually.”

“Oh, I’m not _used_ to it. Cowley doesn’t pay _that_ well. But I spend a lot of time standing in the corner, watching the rich at play. ‘s fun to join in sometimes.” A shrug, and then a grin. “Course, the James Bond image might have something to do with it.”

Doyle’s smile broadened. _He never seems to sulk when I snap at him. Terry and Barbara should take lessons._ He wanted to kiss him, would have given a lot for a few minutes in private.

After two cocktails he was feeling even more satisfied with the world - mellow, and pampered, and immensely rich, which was paradoxical since he’d just insisted on paying the bill. They arrived at the restaurant spot on time, and the pampering intensified. He would have found the ritual and attention to detail intimidating, but Bodie seemed to know the system, so he relaxed and let him take care of everything.

It was an excellent meal. The food and wine were as good as they should have been, given the prices, and conversation was easy: there might be things they didn’t talk about, but they had enough to ensure they were never bored with each other.

In fact, they were so engrossed with one another that it was only when Bodie disappeared to the gents’ that Doyle sat back and took in his surroundings. It soon struck him that they were the only table of two men, and he immediately supplied the reason: people ate here only if they had some reason not to care about the cost. Looking round at his fellow diners he guessed at the reasons. Company expenses was an obvious one (he attributed the tables with groups of three or more men to that). Another was the desire to make a display of wealth, power, or affection. He guessed that most of the couples in the room fell into that category: it wasn’t difficult to spot the middle-aged men out to impress women in their twenties, or the middle-aged couples out to celebrate anniversaries or birthdays.

He wondered if he and Bodie had been spotted as a gay couple out celebrating. Probably. It wouldn’t require a master detective to come to that conclusion, though few would guess that they were celebrating the fact that Bodie could once again go out and get himself shot at.

He played with his wine glass, trying out the idea that someone might have identified them as a pair of lovers, and deciding that he quite liked it. He understood Bodie’s desire for secrecy, and his caution, but he didn’t think the man had really thought it through, or he wouldn’t have brought them here tonight.

The object of his thoughts was coming back to their table, looking really very handsome. Their eyes met as Bodie sat down, and Doyle thought, _It’s got to be written all over our faces. Does he know?_ He wondered if he should tell Bodie what he had been thinking about, point out that they were the only male couple in the room. But Bodie would not be amused, and though it was something they should discuss, he didn’t want to spoil the mood of the evening.

* * * * *

The taxi deposited them outside Bodie’s place shortly after eleven. Doyle was feeling wonderfully relaxed, and had just taken the brakes off the sexual anticipation that had been idling all evening.

The sex was in the same style as the rest of the evening: gentle, unhurried, filling Doyle with a sense of well-being. As he parted his legs for gel-laden fingers, he wondered how he could ever have had any complaints about this. It was all going to work out.

He was woken in the night by movement beside him, and he froze, wondering if it was another nightmare and cursing its timing if it was. But Bodie was only getting up and padding off to the bathroom. When he came back Doyle cuddled up to him, and they exchanged a few drowsy sentences before Bodie fell asleep again. Doyle lay awake a while longer, trying to remember how long it had been since the last nightmare. It must be a good two months. It might not mean anything, but ...

* * * * *

Doyle left the flat a few minutes before Bodie on Thursday morning, and saw very little of him for the next week while he was on nights, and Bodie was working CI5 hours. He’d hoped they’d have some time together over the weekend, but Alison called to invite herself over on Saturday, and the note he left on the pillow seemed to keep Bodie away over Sunday as well. It was depressing. He didn’t want to spend his long leave on his own, but it might turn out like that.

On Tuesday he got a letter with a Harwich postmark. Bodie was out of town, not sure when he’d be back. Doyle frowned and swallowed and let the page fall onto the kitchen worktop. Then he called Alison and invited her for a meal on Wednesday, the first day of his four-day leave.

West was in a better mood all of that week. Presumably he and Barbara had sorted a few things out. He was making noises about a double date, to which Doyle was saying, “Yeah, good idea,” but not suggesting they set a date. He’d discuss it with Alison on Wednesday.

Alison was happy enough with the idea of a double date. “After Easter, though. I won’t be around for the next couple of weeks.”

“Where’re you going?” He hid his relief. _Come home, Bodie, please._

“Just home for the holidays. Only Reading, but I won’t be coming into town.”

“So when’re you off?”

“Sometime over the weekend. I’ll keep in touch. Tell you what, before I go, d’you fancy going clubbing? Bopping, I mean.”

“With Terry and Barbara?”

“God, no. I saw them at a college disco once. Poetry in motion, they’re not. Just the two of us.”

 _Well, why not?_ “Yeah, OK. Haven’t been for ages.” Since Ann, as far as he could remember. “When?”

“Friday? Or Saturday? You’re off both days, aren’t you?”

They settled on Saturday. Now Doyle felt a slight tightness in his stomach that might have been panic. _I’m seeing her too often._ This would be the third date in a fortnight, and more to come after Easter. But how could he say no, given the way he was using her? He owed her.

He relaxed enough to enjoy himself in bed, and to fall asleep untroubled by his conscience. He was deeply into a dream about meeting his old headmaster in the dairy section of the local Marks and Spencers, when the French goat’s cheese they’d been discussing (in French for some reason) started to ring, loudly, and wouldn’t stop. His headmaster kicked him in the shins, and he woke up, wondering what would happen when he went to school the next day. Alison was struggling to consciousness beside him, and the ringing was continuing. He stumbled into the living room to shut it up.

“Yes?”

“Hi, Ray.” Cheerful, wide-awake, and unbearable.

“Jesus Christ, Bodie. Have you _any_ idea what time it is?”

“Yeah. ‘s 2.15. Middle of shift for you, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s 2.15 for me on my day off. I was fast asleep. And I’m not coming out to see any bloody films.”

Not Ray Doyle at his sunniest. He was disturbed by being jolted awake, but more disturbed by the knowledge that Alison was next door and might be listening, and by the jolt of warmth and arousal that had shot through him at the sound of the casual voice. He’d missed him so much. This was not a situation nice people found themselves in.

“Oh. I’m sorry, Ray. I just assumed ... I didn’t think.”

Doyle’s brain despatched the words, “Well, that’s never been your strong point, has it?” but his vocal motor nerve refused to take delivery, and forced him to take a few seconds to calm down. It wasn’t fair to lay into Bodie; he’d probably have done the same.

“You’re just back, are you?” he said in a more conversational tone.

“Yeah. ‘bout half an hour ago.”

“Mission accomplished?”

“Mmm. Nothing brilliant, but not a complete waste of time.”

“Where are they sending you next?” Resigned.

“Oh, nowhere. I’ve got the next two days off, then I’m probably working the weekend.”

“When are you coming over?” Unconsciously, his voice had deepened.

“Now?”

Doyle closed his eyes as the wave of desire washed over him. “No. Not now. I wish ... But ...”

“Come round here tomorrow? A couple of days in the West End?”

“First thing.” A portion of his mind was already thinking of the quickest way to get rid of Alison.

“Great.” Bodie was obviously smiling. “You go back to bed, love. I’m sorry I woke you up.”

Alison was awake but didn’t seem to have been listening. Once she’d realised it wasn’t an emergency she’d stopped trying to make sense of the words.

“What was it?”

“Oh. Nothing. Just a friend.”

“What was he phoning at this time for?”

“Oh.” Doyle did some fast thinking. “He was calling from the States and got his time-differences muddled up. He thought it was mid-morning.”

“Ah.” She seemed to accept that, and settled down again to sleep.

* * * * *

In the morning he kissed Alison goodbye at 9.15, having made firmer arrangements for Saturday night, dumped the few breakfast things in the sink, and dashed out, arriving to receive a good-morning kiss from Bodie at about 9.50.

They had a coffee and caught up with news, though Bodie couldn’t tell him much about what he’d been doing in Harwich. Doyle described how things were going with Alison: the last couple of dates, the night-clubbing, the double date to come. Bodie was unhappy at the idea that she had been at Doyle’s when he had phoned, but it was, typically, paranoia that she might have overheard something incriminating, rather than sympathy for Doyle’s conscience or peace of mind. Once reassured, he seemed quite complacent about the situation, though he did ask Doyle how he felt about things: “Not getting you down too much, is it?”

A shrug. “Well, I have occasional fits of thinking, _Christ, what a bastard I am!_ , but I seem to be coping.”

“And she’s not showing signs of getting difficult?”

“No. She’s not like that. But ... I don’t know what she’s getting out of all this. She could do better.”

“You noticed her complaining?”

He just shrugged again, and studied the carpet. Bodie watched him, serious, and leaned over to top up his mug of coffee. After a few seconds, Doyle raised his head, took his mug, and then sat back, quite relaxed, and smiling. “So, what’re we going to do today?”

It took little discussion to produce a schedule. Doyle was in the mood for a Chinese meal - in Chinatown - and Bodie had no objections. Doyle then remembered the British Museum, and promising himself to take Bodie there some day. It was time they saw the mummies, which even Terry had been going on about the other month. For the evening ... well, they’d see how they felt when it came to it.

They walked to Chinatown, arriving just after midday, and selected a restaurant more-or-less at random, attracted by the carved lions above the door. They were shown to a table, a bowl and eating implements were plonked in front of them, and they waited for their menus.

While they were waiting, they watched girls in identical red silk dresses wheeling trolleys of food from table to table. They would stop by each table, and occasionally a diner would ask for something, or (if the diner was a Westerner) point to it. Once the food had been put on the table, the girls would write on a card which was lying on the table, and move on.

Lying near Bodie’s elbow was a card covered with Chinese characters and little boxes, just asking to be written on. The two men looked at each other, panic brewing. A trolley was approaching, bearing dozens of little woven baskets with lids. The girl stopped and lifted a few lids, so they could see the tiny object inside; they looked rather like dumplings. The men conferred silently, helplessly, then shrugged, and Doyle pointed to two baskets at random. Their card was marked, and the trolley moved on.

The dumplings were very tasty, though tricky to handle if you weren’t an expert with chopsticks, which neither was. After having one from each basket, Doyle said, “I think I remember now reading about this in _Time Out_ or somewhere. It’s a special lunchtime thing. It’s called ... well, I can’t remember what it’s called, but it means ‘little dumplings’.”

Another trolley arrived, this time with spring rolls and pasties, and other mysteries wrapped in pastry. This time Bodie took charge of the pointing.

“I don’t care what it’s called,” he said indistinctly. “It’s bloody good.”

They pigged themselves - no delicate way of saying it. Not a trolley was left untouched. They both agreed it was the most entertaining meal they’d had in ages, and both thought - but did not say - that the other was the perfect companion for this sort of discovery. Doyle would have felt jealous if Bodie had come across this with someone else, and he would have felt self-conscious here with, say, Alison, and too frightened of making a fool of himself to enjoy it properly.

They paid, were amazed at how cheap it was, and wandered northwards towards the museum. The mummies were interesting, though not spectacular, with the exception of a mummified cat which was truly gruesome. Doyle didn’t think of himself as an animal-lover, and was surprised at his own reaction. He found himself strongly revolted at the thought of the cat being put through the indignity of embalming, and ending up here, in a glass case thousands of miles from home, being stared at by bored schoolkids. It seemed a terrible invasion of privacy.

After the mummies, they wandered through the rest of the museum, stopping when their attention was caught. Both were vague on history and geography and anything that might help them make sense of what they were seeing, but they bullshitted happily to one another for several hours. Before closing-time Doyle dragged Bodie to the British Library and showed him the notebook of Jane Austen’s that he’d seen the last time. It didn’t have the same effect on Bodie, but a few cases down he stopped dead. Doyle joined him and saw the manuscript of “Treasure Island”.

“That must have been about the first book I read on my own.” If he was in the grip of nostalgia, it must have been a bony, uncomfortable grip - he sounded sad. “For weeks I thought I was Jim Hawkins.” He stared at the open pages, and the blue handwriting that was barely readable to a modern eye. Finally, he looked up. “Yes, I see what you mean, Ray.”

Doyle wanted to touch him, hold his hand. He didn’t expect to be told what was wrong, but it was difficult to see him so subdued and be unable to do anything.

* * * * *

The museum was closing. It was six. Outside in Great Russell Street, they looked at one another.

“What d’you fancy doing?” asked Bodie.

“I fancy getting some booze and some take-away, and going home. To your place, I mean. I feel as if I haven’t seen you for ages and I’d rather just have a quiet night in.”

Bodie smiled at him, a sweet smile that made him look quite beautiful to Doyle’s eyes, and very young. “Me too.”

They walked back along the streets behind Oxford Street, not talking much, and both thinking thoughts that would have to wait for the privacy of Bodie’s flat. As they neared the flat, they argued about food, eventually deciding to get pizzas from the nearest supermarket rather than a take-away. They disposed of the pizzas quickly, and settled on the sofa with the remains of the wine, Paul Simon singing in the background, and only a couple of dim table-lamps on.

Doyle relaxed into the curve of Bodie’s arm, his hand resting lightly on the man’s thigh, eyes half-closed, a smile on his lips. After an uncounted time: “This is such a romantic cliche, isn’t it?”

“What?” Lazy, ready to be amused.

“All this. The soft lights, the soft music, the wine ...”

A snort of acknowledgement ruffled Doyle’s curls in reply. Silence again, then, more brightly, “Talking of romantic cliches, isn’t our anniversary coming up soon? I lost track of the date around then.”

“It was the Friday before last.” A leaden voice. A body suddenly tense.

Doyle turned, but could read nothing in the shadowed face. “That long ago? Why didn’t you say anything? When did you remember?”

Bodie wouldn’t look at him, or looked only at his hand, tanned and lean, and gripping now, digging into solid leg-muscles. “I never forgot. I didn’t think you’d want to be reminded. Of how this started.” Voice nearly a whisper. “What I did to you.”

“You mean when you saved my life?” Quiet and even.

“When I raped you. You should hate me.”

It was not a comfortable thing, to watch Bodie’s face, the pain, and then the blankness. Doyle didn’t look away. He turned the grip of his hand into a gentle, regular caress, and wondered what he should say to get his Bodie back.

“I did at first, but ...” How to explain a process he didn’t understand himself? A shrug, and a weak smile. “... you were just so nice about it.”

Bodie flinched, and drew away, hunched on himself, as if willing Doyle not to be there, as if after a nightmare. Doyle’s hand fell to the settee, and he swallowed, knowing his record of providing comfort at times like this. But what else could he do? Walk out? Go to bed and read a book until Bodie came back?

“Bodie, I think you’re forgetting how it really was. It wasn’t rape.” Very soft.

Four heartbeats, then, in a rush, “I fucked you. You didn’t want me to. That’s rape. I know what happened.”

“You didn’t want to though, did you? I don’t understand Arabic, but I could see how the argument went with ben Yussef. You didn’t want to. If there was any way out ... you wouldn’t have done it. Would you?”

“I _wanted_ you.” Almost a snarl.

“And you still want me. Like I want you. But I _know_ you. You didn’t enjoy it. Not like a rapist would. And that made all the difference. It wasn’t ... an assault, then, it was ... an accident, something impersonal. You didn’t try to humiliate me, you didn’t make a big deal out of it, you just made some rotten jokes and then got it over with. And I know that if I hadn’t made a move, you’d have got me home without ever touching me again, no matter how much you wanted me. I knew that by the second night.”

Bodie was still turned away, but he seemed less closed off, seemed to be listening. Doyle kept on talking, explaining things to himself as well as to Bodie. He’d barely thought about any of this since they’d got back - it seemed so far away, and their life in London had kept him fully occupied. For him it was just ... the beginning of the heat-trace. He’d never imagined it might be different for Bodie.

“I’m not saying it was ... OK. It hurt like hell, and - yeah - I tried to hate you for it. But I just ... couldn’t keep it up. You _were_ too nice about it all. I know that’s a stupid way to put it, but it’s true. You didn’t go all soppy and treat me like I was a quivering wreck, or like I was a refugee from some Valentino film. You just treated me like someone who’d had bad luck and had got into a tight spot and you were doing what you could, and that was that. It was exactly what I needed to get over it, and I didn’t think you’d even planned it that way. It was just ... how you were. Like I said, you made it all impersonal, like an accident, almost like ... oh, I dunno ... stubbing my toe on a brick. _That_ would hurt, and ... you know me, I’d swear at the brick for a while, but I wouldn’t bother hating it or blaming it. What’s the point?”

He stopped then, having exhausted himself for the moment, and watched the other man. Slowly, Bodie turned his head. He looked tired and sad, but no longer blank. He was back.

“It wasn’t rape, Bodie. Believe me.”

“I wanted you.” Quiet now.

A shrug. Try Bodie’s own matter-of-factness. “I’m glad you did. If you hadn’t, I might not have gone with you and we might both be dead by now.”

Finally, Bodie met his eyes. It would be safe to touch now. Doyle reached over and covered the hand nearest, and after some persuasion the clenched fingers loosened and linked with his own.

“Do you blame yourself like this every time you get what you want? Huh? It was all an accident. It doesn’t reflect on either of us. Me, I’m just glad we got started at all. I wouldn’t have missed this ... you ... for anything. Ease up on yourself, eh?”

A few more moments of tension, then Bodie gave a deep sigh, and slumped back, hand still linked with Doyle’s.

“Thank you, Ray.”

Doyle shook his head, meaning, _Forget it. Let’s change the subject_ , and smiled as sunnily as he could. But Bodie didn’t seem ready to smile back yet, so he leaned forward, mouth open, and showed that Bodie was not the only one now with desires, however it might have started. Bodie was subdued at first, but two minutes later they were still kissing and their hands were no longer clasped, but had gone exploring.

Finally a stiffening neck made Doyle draw his head back. They looked at one another, smiling. Doyle bent his face to meet the gently stroking hands.

“Were you really never going to mention the anniversary?”

A slight grimace. “I thought you might mention it beforehand, or on the date. Then when you didn’t, I thought you were trying to forget, and I ...”

“I honestly didn’t know the date. If I had I’d have bought you a present, and arranged a candle-light dinner and -“ Sudden thought. “Was that what last week was about? The Savoy and everything?”

“Pretty much. I - Stay there.”

He came back from the bedroom carrying a cube wrapped in restrained, Regency-striped paper. “Happy anniversary, love. It’s been a wonderful year. Thank you.”

Inside the paper was a black box, very understated, with the word “Lalique” written in silver at the bottom of each side. Doyle tugged the box free from the base, struggling against the vacuum he was creating, to reveal four champagne flutes, presumably crystal. The design was nothing he’d ever seen before. Just above the stem was the face of an angel, broad, calm, remote, and the angel’s wings swept back up the glass. It was breathtakingly beautiful. He would be frightened to touch them, let alone drink from them.

“Oh. Bodie.”

“Do you like them? I wasn’t sure.”

In reply he carefully put the glasses down on the coffee table, and turned to gather his lover close, leaving him in no doubt as to his pleasure.

“Where did you find them? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It was when I was working on the fur case. You remember. I saw them in one of the Bond Street shops.” He smiled to himself. “They reminded me of you.”

Doyle bent to pick up a glass and hold it close. He snorted. “I don’t look like that.”

“You do sometimes. You do now.”

They looked at each other, fascinated. Doyle felt paralysed by the responsibility of dealing with these moments of enthralment. How could they make it last? What should they do, and when? He wanted sex, but that seemed too easy, too obvious, and this paper-thin feeling would be consumed in the fires of orgasm. He didn’t know, found only a leaden pragmatism: “I’ll go and get some champagne. The off-licence will still be open, won’t it?”

“No need. I’ve got some chilled.”

“In case I remembered in time?”

Bodie nodded, and went to the kitchen. Doyle got up and switched on the fire to the left of the settee, pushing the coffee table back towards the far wall. When Bodie came back, they knelt together by the hearth, and Bodie opened the bottle while Doyle arranged the glasses.

“I thought we might as well get in all the clichés while we’re at it. Shame you haven’t got a log fire, or at least a coal one.”

“I’ll see what I can arrange for next year. I’m due a move.”

“Oh. I’ll miss this place. We’ve had good times here.”

“We certainly have.”

They smiled wickedly, like conspirators, and raised their glasses. The clear note of an angel’s voice rang out, recalling other aspects of the good times, and their faces stilled. They clasped their free hands, and then sat in silence, sipping the champagne slowly and in unison, making each mouthful a tribute to the other.

Doyle could feel a rapid pulse tugging at his hand, but wasn’t sure if it was Bodie’s or his own, or both. It could be his own, which was a thud in his diaphragm, almost painful. It was part nerves, part arousal, part fear - this passion was not something he had sought for himself. Did Bodie ever feel that? That it was strange that two formerly-heterosexual men should be kneeling in front of the fire, holding hands and studying one another with a devotion they had never shown any of their women?

He leant forward to kiss the man’s cheek lightly, then drew back. Cherish. The word appeared unbidden. Had he ever used it before? He didn’t think so, except maybe to describe number-plates, and for that it hardly counted as the same word. That idea made what was happening to him seem even stranger, even more separate from his life as he’d always imagined it.

“Bodie?” Tentative.

“Mmm?”

“Does all this ever seem like a dream to you? I mean, that we’re in love, and that we’re here like this and ... everything? Sometimes it seems so ... strange I think that no one who knows us would ever believe it. Not Terry, not Murphy, no one.”

Immediately, he wished he’d kept quiet. Bodie had taken it the wrong way. “Do you mean that it doesn’t feel right? That you don’t want it?”

“Come _on_. Do you _think_ I don’t want it?” He waited for Bodie to shake his head. “What I meant was ... I never imagined that this would happen to me, not this kind of head-over-heels love, not with a man, and sometimes I just ... do a double-take. _Do_ you ever feel like that?”

Bodie frowned, considering, taking the question seriously. “Not really. Except ... it’s too good to be true. You, I mean. I never expected ...” He swallowed. “I half expect it all to go away, you know.”

“It won’t. I promise.”

They kissed.

Soon they were lying full-length on the carpet, nearly under the coffee table, still kissing. Bodie’s mouth, though one of his main tools in his job of looking the hard man, was gentle and soft under Doyle’s - somehow not passively gentle and soft, but actively so.

From nowhere, the words, “I don’t get my jollys from hurting people,” entered Doyle’s head, and a surge of love caused him to tighten his arms; he hadn’t known, when he’d first heard those words, that they were a rebellion against nature, a triumph of Bodie’s character.

The man should be a sadist. And somehow he wasn’t. It was a miracle. How had Bodie learnt to love? He wanted an answer, but he couldn’t ask, because he wasn’t supposed to know how poor Bodie’s chances had been.

The core of his body melted, became something more than flesh, and he opened his mouth wide, moaning, and rolled Bodie onto his back. _Oh, he’s beautiful._ Beautiful, every inch of him.

All very well to tell yourself that sex would end this too quickly, but that didn’t stop the flow of blood between your legs. Doyle’s cock was hard and hot and selfish. It wanted to be touched, _now_ , and it didn’t care about the fragility of any moment or mood.

He stood, pushed the settee further out of the way, and stripped.

Bodie watched, eyes bright, his hand slipping down to his groin, first to massage and arouse, and then, urgent, to undo his flies and take a firm hold of the hot cock. Doyle watched this in his turn, and when he was naked, he knelt, lifted Bodie’s hand out of the way, and then pushed his shirt up, and his trousers and Y-fronts down. Just a few inches. Enough.

Bodie lay patiently, despite the demands from his body, waiting for whatever Ray wanted next. He’d known women who enjoyed this - just dropping his trousers. Marrika had been the first. She said it turned her on, just seeing his thick, strong cock. It _was_ exciting, but after her, and after a few others, he’d decided that it wasn’t so much a compliment to that part of his body, as a dismissal of the rest of him. Of course, that was all he expected, but it’s as well not to fool yourself. He’d become skilled at recognising women like Marrika, at giving them what _they_ expected.

With Ray, though, it _was_ a compliment, or ... it didn’t matter whether it was or not. None of the old rules applied with Ray. If this was what Ray needed now, then there could be nothing wrong with it.

Doyle bent to taste the purpling organ, swallowing the head, then tracing careful lines down to the base. Bodie bucked and moaned, as thrilled by the light brushes of curls against his thighs as he was by the hot mouth. But both were removed all too quickly - Doyle’s cock was telling him to fuck, and this was nowhere near close enough.

It was appeased when he stretched out full-length on Bodie, and pressed down, panting. Contact. A promise. The urgency faded, and he was allowed to consider Bodie again.

They kissed, mouths and hips moving in a leisurely rhythm. Bodie’s shirt was rough against his bare chest, the seams of the pocket rubbing lightly against a nipple. Bodie’s free hand moved down his back to rest on his buttocks; it squeezed, once, twice, then pressed down hard, giving a sudden increase in friction.

After that, Doyle could not go back to the gentle movements. He drew himself up so that he could thrust more strongly, and found himself slipping into the crevice between the tight-pressed thighs. Instantly, he cried out, and thrust as deeply as he could. Then, belatedly, he remembered being in this position once before, in a bathhouse. Bodie had thrown him off, instinctively. After a few deep breaths, and a brief, violent debate with his erection, he withdrew, and moved further up, to neutral territory. He rested, eyes closed and breathing ragged.

“Come on. I’m waiting.” Bodie’s hands were urging his hips downwards.

“What? To throw me across the room?”

“Eh?”

“Don’t you remember last time? In the bathhouse. I was ... between your legs and you ... you threw me off. I don’t wanna try it in here. We’ll break something.”

“Oh.” Pause. “It was a surprise then, that’s all. And a different position. It felt fine just then. Come on.”

A longer pause. “How do I know it’s not going to give you nightmares?”

“Doesn’t seem very likely, does it?”

“I dunno _what’s_ likely. What’s the difference between two fingers and three? What’s the difference between this position and that one? All I know is ... it feels like fucking you - nearly - and ... I _can’t_ do that. I can’t take the risk.”

“Shh.” Long soothing strokes along his back. “No risk, Ray. In the bathhouse ... you touched my arse - this time you didn’t. Big difference. And ... I _know_ you know, like I didn’t then. There’s no risk. Come on.”

The calm words eroded Doyle’s determination, and finally he let his cock decide.

* * * * *

“See. No risk.”

“No.” He was doubly-glad of the fire now. Sweat could be a very efficient coolant. “Did it really feel OK to you? Good enough to bother with again?”

“Definitely. Even if it wasn’t, it would be worth it to see you like that. You’re something else, Ray. Wish we’d thought of this months ago. Something else to celebrate, eh?” He glanced around for the glasses, abandoned by the side of the fire. “Finish the bottle?”

“Mmm.” He stirred vaguely, practice for sitting up. Bodie was there already, reaching for the bottle, and then changing his mind, and undressing instead. This time it was Doyle lying on the carpet watching. The lamp-light caught the semen that smeared the muscular buttocks and thighs. Exhaustion forgotten, he reached up to touch, and then rose to his knees, and pressed his face to Bodie’s flank. His fingers trailed, sticky.

“I’ll get a towel.”

“Uhn.” He looked up, frowning in protest.

Quickly, “Just to sit on. Carpet itches.”

A jerky swallow. “OK,” and he let him go, and poured more champagne.

They knelt on the navy-blue towel, leaning against one another, much as they had before, except now they were naked. The room was silent except for a low hum from the coils of the fire, the soft rustling of hands on skin and hair, and the moist suction of mouths. The decision to go to bed was made without words.

* * * * *

When Doyle awoke it was mid-morning, and Bodie was a hot, wet weight against his back, with an arm heavy on his stomach. He was still feeling fantastic - sticky, stiff, and yeasty with sweat - there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

He stroked the hand that lay just above his cock. It was a hand that had seen hard use; there were calluses on the fingers and on the striking surfaces, and numerous scars in addition to the one from the barbed wire, which was still a perceptible purple ridge. Surely it was four weeks since Bodie said, “Two weeks office duty and physio and you’d never know it happened.” Over four weeks.

Still, the hand felt marvellous. This was part of his idea of beauty now, along with the strength in the arms that were pressing him back against a wakening body, and the hopeful nudge between his buttocks.

“Go ahead.” He arched back in encouragement. “Come on. I’m still ready from last night. More than ready.”

“You don’t mind if I check?” said a strained voice near his ear, and the scarred hand was withdrawn from his. There was no resistance to the finger which pressed inside him.

“You convinced now?”

“Yeah.”

It was a perfect start to the day.

* * * * *

They stayed in for most of Friday, going out only to buy food and drink. Their desire and regard for one another were so obvious and urgent that Bodie’s flat was the only safe or bearable place to be.

Bodie set the alarm for five on Saturday morning, expecting to be called into work, but there was a delay in the operation, and at six he was told that he was back on stand-by. They drifted back to sleep, lying fully-clothed on top of the bed, and later watched clouds being blown across the cold March sky.

In the late afternoon, Doyle went back to his flat to get ready for Alison. They had a meal in the West End and then went on to the nightclub in Picadilly. He was feeling very subdued - leaving Bodie had _hurt_ , a tearing sensation at the bottom of his rib-cage. It took a lot of work to hide this, to make sure Alison had nothing to comment on. She seemed to notice nothing, and her enthusiasm and start-of-holiday mood gave him something to base his own performance on. It got easier, gradually.

She was looking good, in a short, bright-orange dress in sweat-shirt material. He knew they made an attractive couple, and tried not to resent her for that. She liked dancing even more than Ann had done. They spent most of the night on the floor, returning to their table and their drinks only if the DJ played a song she really hated. She liked most songs.

They didn’t talk much, beyond superficial comments on music and dancing and other couples around them; the music was loud even off the dance‑floor, and on it they could only yell at one another. There were worse ways to spend a Saturday night - he supposed. He did like dancing, and he did like Alison, but this was not the right time for him to enjoy either. Wherever he looked, he saw people touching, kissing, showing their lovers off to their friends and to the world. It was terrible timing, being reminded right now that this _was_ possible ... but not with Bodie.

The longing receded when they were on the floor, and he could cut out all the others and concentrate on Alison and the music, and stop thinking for a while. Then the slow dances started, as he’d known they would. _Oh, no, please._ But how to get out of it? What coy excuses do you make to a woman you’re already sleeping with? He didn’t know.

They danced the first two, then Alison said, “Do you mind if we sit the next few out? The DJ’s taste is far too sickly for me. Let’s see if it gets better.”

“Sure.”

They talked until their drinks were finished. When he got up, and pointed to her glass with raised eyebrows, she shook her head, and said, “The music really isn’t getting any better. Why don’t we give up?”

It was two in the morning by the time they got home. His shift started as seven. Unfortunately, she was full of energy, having stocked up on sleep the previous day. He managed to perform, but he didn’t know how - she did a lot of the work.

A drizzling Sunday dawn saw her energy-levels unchanged. It was ghastly. She even got up before the alarm went off, and brought coffee in bed. While Doyle drank it and tried to be pleasant, she nosed around the bedroom, exploring his wardrobe with few signs of inhibitions.

“God, this is gorgeous.” She was holding up the leather jacket. “It’s silk-lined, isn’t it? Feels beautiful.”

It looked strange on her, hanging open over her naked breasts, or was that just because he was remembering Christmas? _Don’t let her ask where I got it._

“I don’t suppose you want to get rid of it?”

“You don’t‑suppose correctly.”

She sighed, and put it back next to the charcoal-grey suit, which Bodie had given him - very casually - the morning after that evening in town.

In the end, he was glad he was working that morning. Without that excuse to get rid of her, Alison might have stayed all day, and he might have ended up hating her. They left the flat together and he gave her a lift to the tube.

* * * * *

The tax-payers did not get value for money out of PC Ray Doyle that Sunday. He was off in a dream, thinking of Bodie in the flat at Marble Arch. In bed, probably. Naked, anyway. Keeping himself ready, waiting for end of shift. It just got better and better - everything between them - indecent really, after such a year.

“When are the four of us going to hit the town, then?”

“Uh?” Doyle jerked in his seat.

“Us and the girls. Have you asked Alison?”

“Oh. Yeah. When she comes back from her Easter holidays, she said.”

“When’s that?”

A shrug. “Fortnight, I think.”

“Huh. Students, eh?”

“Mmm.” Doyle drifted back to his private world. West wondered if he was coming down with ‘flu.

* * * * *

Bodie had spent the day in a similar dream. Doyle was ambushed as soon as he got in the door, but uttered no complaints as he was pressed against the wall in the dim hallway, his mouth opened by Bodie’s tongue, his jeans by Bodie’s hand. When Bodie dropped to his knees and his head disappeared under the white uniform shirt, Doyle moaned once in disbelief, then, convinced, settled to gasps and whimpers. Afterwards, Bodie all-but-carried him into the bedroom.

“Still on stand-by?”

“Mmm. They might call the whole thing off. I dunno.”

“But you’re working Monday?”

“’s far as I know.”

“Sleep at my place next week?”

“Course.”

They had a quiet evening on the settee. Bodie didn’t ask about Saturday night with Alison, and Doyle was not about to raise a topic which would only depress him. Bedtime was early, to give enough time for leisurely sex, and breakfast in the morning.

Doyle was woken by the ‘phone. Half-asleep, he reached out to answer it, but Bodie got there first and pushed him away. The conversation was monosyllabic on Bodie’s side, and Doyle couldn’t work out what was going on, except that he’d have to leave - Bodie had picked up his jeans and shirt from the bedside chair and dumped them on the bed - a clear-enough instruction.

The ‘phone slammed down. “I’ve been called in. Murph’ll be around in a few minutes to pick me up. He mustn’t see you.” All efficiency. Already at work. He was dressing too, very quickly.

“I know.”

Bodie let them both out and pointed at the far end of the corridor. “Go down the stairs and out the back. You don’t need a key. Wait for about ...” He glanced at his watch. “- five minutes, though. Make sure we’re clear.” A hand on his shoulder. “I’ll be round as soon as it’s over.” Then he was running in the other direction towards the lifts and the main stairs, and out of sight in seconds.

Doyle turned slowly and walked in the direction Bodie had indicated. He’d never been in this part of the corridor before. The back stairs were uncarpeted, with paint peeling from the walls, a contrast to the impressive front entrance. He trudged downwards, not timing himself, but feeling it was taking him all night. The back door had a push-bar, like a cinema. It was a very cold night and it was drizzling.

It was just after three when he arrived home. The flat was freezing cold, and for the first time in years he wished he had a hot-water-bottle. He decided to have a shower, and sod the neighbours - he needed warming up, and he was very sticky and sweaty, and he didn’t want to get into a clean (and icy) bed in that condition. He was trying hard not to feel upset, trying hard to convince himself that it was all perfectly normal. It probably was, to Bodie. What a life.

He put a tracksuit and some socks on and went to bed. He tried not to lie awake thinking about what had just happened. He didn’t want to let it spoil things, not when things were going so well. And he’d always known that Bodie had a dangerous job, and a high-security job. This wasn’t a surprise.

Sleep came eventually, and when he woke he woke slowly, and kept drifting back into quick dreams that lasted for just a few minutes, and seemed to be repeating the same theme over and over. But when he came fully awake the dreams fled, and all they left were fear, and an image of himself walking at night under a cloudless sky. He was carrying water in an old, chipped mug, and he was walking towards a distant light, and birds were singing close to him. Somehow he knew the birds should not be there.


	9. Heat-Trace - Chapter 7

## Chapter 7

Doyle was quiet again that day at work. The dreams had left an empty feeling. It was such a change from the excitement and anticipation of the day before; he couldn’t even let himself look forward to meeting Bodie in the evening, in case ... No. Probably nothing.

“You coming down with something?” West asked mid-morning.

“Mmm?” Irritated at being interrupted.

“You coming down with ‘flu? Or is it a massive hangover? You haven’t been your usual lively self this week. Fragile, I’d say.”

“Oh.” Well, it was a ready-made excuse. “Might be flu, come to think of it. And a bit of hangover - Alison celebrating the end of term, you know.”

“Orange juice. That’s what you need.”

Doyle nodded wearily.

* * * * *

Bodie let himself in around nine that evening, carrying the box of angel glasses and a bottle of champagne as an apology. It was accepted, but Doyle decided he looked too tired to appreciate it at that moment.

“D’you catch up with any sleep today?”

“No. Just wrapped the job up about half an hour ago.”

“Thought so. You look all in. ‘s go to bed.” He didn’t ask for any more information about Bodie’s day, knowing from experience that he wouldn’t get it anyway.

After that, CI5 was quiet for the rest of the week, and they drank the champagne on Tuesday, went to a film on Wednesday, and played squash on Thursday. It was like a continuation of their anniversary celebrations - the return to work had forced them to control the urgency, but it was a fact too obvious to state that they wanted to be together for every available minute. Late shift would come soon enough, and after that Alison would be back in town.

Thursday’s squash was a last minute decision. The initial plan had been to meet in the West End, and then see what they felt like. Doyle reported to the desk at CI5 HQ just past six, and Tony phoned through for Bodie before he’d even opened his mouth to identify himself. Definitely a CI5 groupie.

While he was waiting, he tried to remember the last time he’d been here. Surely not ... _that_ time. When he’d found out about Bodie’s women. He didn’t like to think about that - how close he’d come to missing all this. No. He had been here since. This year, surely. After five minutes waiting, he hadn’t found any definite memories.

He heard footsteps descending, and looked up smiling, but the smile changed when he saw it was only Murphy, and he sank back in the chair again.

“Hi, Ray. Bodie’s tied up finishing a report. He’ll be another few minutes, he says. He also says that he’s sure you’d rather wait for him in the ‘Lamb and Flag’, and that I’m to buy you a pint, though I could have sworn it was his round.” The tall man wiggled his eyebrows and grinned. Doyle smiled back and they left together.

“This isn’t your regular pub, is it?”

“No. Dunno why not. We seem to go through phases. ‘The Red Lion’s been in for over a year. Before that it was ‘The Trafalgar’. Before that ...” He shrugged. “You’d have to ask Bodie.”

“How long have you been with ... um ... the squad?”

“It’ll be three years come November.”

“Oh. Is that a long time? I mean, how long have the others been in?”

“I’m one of the new boys, really. There’s only Petrie and Taylor who joined after me. But there aren’t many real veterans. After all, the squad’s only been going five years. I think Bodie’s been around most of that time, though you get a different version from him every time he tells it.”

Doyle took a long swallow, then frowned and said, “What’s it like? On the squad?”

A pause while Murphy studied the ceiling seriously. “It’s a lot of waiting, a lot of footwork, a bit of detective work, and a bit of action.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

A near whistle, then, slowly, “ _Enjoy_ ’s not the right word. I can’t imagine not doing it. It makes me feel that I’m at the centre of things, and I’d feel ... exiled if I wasn’t doing it. There’s nothing quite like it.”

Doyle nodded, serious, and stared into his drink.

“Why do you ask?”

Doyle looked up, then blinked, and shrugged.

“You were interviewed for the squad, weren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“But you didn’t fancy it?”

“I thought about it.” A pause. “Sounded exciting. Important. But - for me - too cloak-and-dagger, big-time-crime. Gangster movies have always bored me stupid. Course, someone has to do it. But not me.”

“You’re interested in the little people.”

 _Is he taking the piss? Can’t tell._ “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

A table became free and they sat down. Murphy seemed to be in the mood to talk. “You’re very different from Bodie.”

 _What the hell’s that supposed to mean?_ “Everyone’s very different from Bodie.”

The edge in Doyle’s voice didn’t seem to bother Murphy. “Very true. You know, I was terrified of him the first time I saw him.”

Doyle’s eyebrows raised in an excellent simulation of bright interest.

“It was in my first few weeks, and I’d heard about him as the real tough-nut who was a complete bastard to trainees. So when I was told to report to the training centre at 7 am for weapons training with 3.7 ...” He grimaced. “You know I’m the only one who doesn’t come from the services or the force. I was an experiment. I’d just come from a handguns course, but I knew he was going to make it obvious I was wasting everybody’s time.”

_What are you getting at, Murphy? Am I supposed to agree that he’s a psychopath?_

“So I turned up at the range in the morning, half-certain it was going to be my last day on the squad. I was killing time reading the notice board, when this voice at my ear - I swear he appeared from nowhere - said, ‘You ex-SAS, or ex-Special Branch?’. I said I was ex-RGIT, and while he was taking that in I turned round. He was dressed in combat gear and carrying a rifle, and he _did_ look as if he’d just stepped out of the jungle.”

Murphy broke off to smile knowingly at Doyle. “There’s some very inventive stories going around about him, you know.” Back to the story. “So he said, ‘That’s Toy-Soldier’s talk for Potato Peeling Unit, is it?’. I knew I was dead anyway and I was curious to see if his lip could curl any more, so I told him it was the college I’d taught at.”

“And?”

“Oh, it’s very boring after that build up. He asked me about the college, seemed interested, told me about some of the offshore exercises he’d done with the SAS, and then we got on with the training. He’s a good teacher, you know. Good at figuring out how much you know, and pitching the lesson just right, so it’s not insulting and it’s not over your head. And that’s not easy. I know. Anyway, he’s always been fine with me, but ... I’ve seen enough to know why I was warned about him. If he doesn’t like you ...” Murphy shook his head while exhaling loudly.

Doyle didn’t know what to say. He felt he ought to defend Bodie, but it was difficult to talk about him as if he were just a friend, to say, “Yeah, he can be a pain, but he’s a good mate,” when his real feeling was so much stronger. He said nothing, just smiled and nodded and hoped Murphy would shut up soon, and that Bodie would arrive.

Murphy hadn’t finished, though, by any means. He looked at Doyle, and said, “You’re very good friends, aren’t you?”

“I suppose so.” He frowned, bemused, and openly exasperated. “Why are you so interested, for God’s sake?”

Murphy held up his hands to show that he was harmless. “I work with him a lot. My life depends on him, maybe four or five times a year. Is it any wonder I’m interested in him? Especially since I don’t understand him at all. Before he met you I’d have said that he was the most isolated person I’ve ever met.” Murphy was calm and reasonable, but the policeman did not relax. “But you obviously don’t want to talk about him.”

“No, I don’t. He wouldn’t like it.”

“Fair enough.”

The two men looked at each other seriously for several seconds, then Murphy leant back in his seat, and asked Doyle about his job. They were talking about pub fights when Bodie arrived ten minutes later.

He bought the next round and fitted into the discussion. Doyle was slightly abstracted, wondering what was going on with Murphy. Was it innocent curiosity? Had he handled him properly? Maybe he’d been too hostile, made it look as if they had something to hide. But he couldn’t have talked - Bodie would have hated it. Should he mention the conversation later? Bodie was paranoid enough as it was.

But then he finally remembered the last time he’d been on a CI5 pub crawl. It _had_ been that year, in January, after Bodie and Murphy had been working together up north. Murphy’s interest might be innocent, but it wasn’t casual. _Should_ he mention it to Bodie? He’d see.

The tall man drank quickly and left. The lovers looked at one another, smiling.

“What d’you fancy doing? Another film?”

Bodie ran his fingers through his short hair, and looked thoughtful. “What I really fancy is a game of squash. I’ve been sitting on my bum all day.”

“Squash. Yeah.” It was settled.

“My kit’s in the car. We’ll stop off at your place.” Pause. “Will you let me show you the club this time?”

“Sure. You can even buy me a drink.”

“Or a meal? It’s got a good restaurant.”

While collecting his racket and kit, Doyle selected some tapes for the drive, to add to those already in the glove compartment.

They only had to wait for ten minutes for a court to come free. Bodie won the game narrowly, and Doyle didn’t mind at all.

For Doyle, the real test of self-control came in the changing rooms afterwards. This was only the second time they’d been naked together in a public place, in England. The first time had been here too, and then he’d salivating with possessive lust - the memory did not make Bodie look any less desirable.

_Look at him, stripping off for the shower, all flushed and rumpled, all muscles. No, don’t look, you won’t fool anyone that you’re a straight man, relaxing with a straight friend. You’re even forgotten how straight men behave when they’re together like this._

He looked away. It was the only safe thing to do - no other man in the room had that mesmerising combination of pallor and power.

* * * * *

By the time they finished their coffee it was nearly midnight. Doyle was feeling both energised and relaxed, the result of hard exercise followed by warm water and good food and alcohol. He’d had most of the wine - Bodie was driving.

The night was crisp and clear. He’d always enjoyed being driven at night - it was a better aid to meditation than a log-fire. They were on their own, free and warm, and the rest of the world was asleep. They even had their own soundtrack, to prove that what was happening was special. David Bowie was singing. “When you rock and roll with me, there’s no one else I’d rather be. Nobody down here can do it for me. I’m in tears again, when you rock and roll with me.” He must have seen them in bed, somehow.

They did not talk much. Their thoughts meandered, and sometimes a thought was worth voicing, and sometimes it wasn’t.

“Bodie?”

“Mmm?”

“What do you make of Murph?”

“He’s good. Easy to work with. No bad habits ... apart from the smoking. Thinks he’s smarter than the rest of us, but he probably is.” Two fields went by. “Why?”

“Just ... talking to him in the pub this evening. He was asking me ... about you. Nothing specific. Just ... what you’re like. Said he didn’t understand you and he wanted to because you work together. I ... I just don’t know whether to trust him.”

“Trust him for what? We’re not going to tell him anything. Why do we need to trust him?”

“I suppose what I mean is - do we need to watch out for him? I told him this evening that I wasn’t going to talk about you. Is that going to make him suspicious? Is he a friend ... or what?”

Bodie didn’t reply for over a minute. “I think he’s a friend.” Another long silence. “But we should keep away from him for a while. The less he sees of the pair of us the better.”

Doyle nodded, and went back to watching the moonlight on the fields.

Back at his flat they went straight to bed. Doyle pushed Bodie back against the pillows, and leant over him. “You know, I didn’t dare look at you in the showers. If I had, I’d’ve grabbed you in front of everyone and ...” A long, noisy kiss. “Sexiest man there by miles. So strong and solid.” His breathing was ragged. “Bet you’ll star in a few wet dreams tonight, sunshine. But they can’t have you, can they?”

Bodie shook his head dumbly and opened his mouth for another kiss.

“Because you’re mine,” and Doyle lowered himself on top of his lover and pressed home between the muscled thighs.

* * * * *

The first day of late shift was Easter Sunday, and phenomenally boring, even for a Sunday. Half the population must have gone away for the long weekend. They were back for Monday though, feeling cheated because of the bad weather and worse television, and narrow-eyed and irritable after four whole days in the presence of their loved ones.

By half past nine in the evening the city was full, a fact which it celebrated by calling Doyle and West to an early pub fight. The pub was packed and steamy, and someone had found the attentions of a wet, smelly dog too much for his simmering temper. After a brief argument, he had gone for the dog, which other people in the pub thought was well out of order, and in a matter of minutes the fight had turned very nasty indeed.

By the time Doyle and West arrived there were already two panda cars and an ambulance outside, but the fight was not yet over. They were ordered to keep to the outskirts, and help get the injured to the ambulance. Their first patient was a man with a broken nose and an enormous lump on his head; he was very groggy, but still muttering about the dog. As they carried him to the door, a woman’s voice rose above the clamour.

“Move away from the door, and let that stretcher in. This man is choking to death.”

The two policeman fell back with the crowd, which was now much quieter, and shortly afterwards the ambulance sped off, and the four police-officers left started taking names and addresses and stories. Gradually the pub cleared. By the end of their shift, the only people left were the publicans, and the few brawlers who hadn’t been taken to hospital. As soon as the van arrived to take the brawlers to the station, Doyle and West would take the car back for the next team, and call it a night.

Doyle shuffled around impatiently, then felt a weight settle on his foot. He looked down. A small dog with long tangled hair was going to sleep against him. The fur was dark and matted all over, but he thought he could see blood around the head.

“Is this the dog?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“How badly was it hurt?”

“Dunno. I think -“

“The fucker kicked it in the ribs,” broke in a man with a split lip. “A little thing like that.”

He eased his feet out from under the animal’s stomach as carefully as he could, then knelt down so that he could see it properly. There _was_ blood on its head, but it might not be its own - he couldn’t see a cut. He didn’t want to feel around its ribs in case he did further damage, but it didn’t seem to be having problems breathing, or to be upset in _any_ way, so he guessed it was OK for now. Apart from the urgent need for a bath.

He walked over to the bar, and told the sergeant about the animal. “Where’s the nearest vet’s casualty ward?”

A long stare. “You’re having me on.”

“Look, its owner’s in hospital, it might have a cracked rib. We’ve got to do something with it.”

“Take it to Battersea.”

Doyle nodded, and walked back to the dog, but something in him rebelled at the idea of leaving the creature with strangers after a night like that. It would think it was being punished.

OK, the people at Battersea would know what to do with it, and would make sure it wasn’t badly injured, but ... Well, it seemed fine, and it _did_ seem to have taken to him, and ...

No, there was no question about it. He couldn’t just dump it. The fact was it reminded him of himself after his mother’s death, desperate for a hug, for someone to cry with, but left with strangers who had their own problems to think about. He couldn’t do that, not even to a filthy mutt. He’d take it home, just for tonight. Couldn’t do any harm.

He told Terry what he was planning. His partner was obviously surprised, but helped him carry it to the area car, and then to Doyle’s own car when they eventually got back to the station.

 _Oh, hell. Dog food. And how well is this thing house-trained? Is it going to bark all night, or something?_ Too late to wonder now, when it was nearly midnight and he was already home. The Arnolds had never gone in for pets - they were a mystery to him.

When he opened the rear door, it jumped out, tail wagging, and he guessed that it was safest to let it walk, rather than trying to carry it on his own. It followed him into the block and up the stairs, nails clicking on the hard floor.

He went into the kitchen first, hoping for inspiration about dog food. It was tidier than when he’d left it that afternoon. The flat was completely quiet apart from the excited dog - Bodie was probably asleep.

Oh, not in the bedroom. Had he left? Been called in again?

He was in the sitting room, just inside the door, flat on his back on the settee with his legs sprawled over the far arm, stockinged feet resting on the side table. He grunted once, but showed no other signs of waking. Even in the soft light from the table lamp, he looked exhausted. Obviously this was going to be a more-typical week for CI5.

Doyle tried to be quiet as he went back to the kitchen to search the kitchen for anything that might do as dog food, or as a litter tray. Nothing. It was no good, he’d have to drive into town and find an all-night shop. _Why don’t I think these things through?_

* * * * *

When he came back the dog was sprawled on top of Bodie, who still seemed to be asleep, though he’d surfaced enough to fling one arm around the animal. Doyle moved closer to check that the dog was still breathing properly, and hadn’t injured itself in clambering onto the sofa. He rested a hand on its shoulder blade, fully aware that he had no idea what he was looking for. Its tail thumped on Bodie’s stomach.

“Busy day?” A broad smile through a yawn.

“You could say that. I hate bank holidays.” He explained about the dog and the pub-fight. “I’m sorry. I should have warned you. Not sure why I brought it home, just ... seemed a shitty thing to do, you know, dumping it in a dogs’ home in the middle of the night. Here, I’ll take it.” He tried to persuade the dog onto the floor. It did not want to go.

“’s alright. ‘s not bothering me. Could do with a drink though.” He was slowly easing himself into a sitting position. “’s been a lousy day.”

“Why? What happened?” Doyle was on the far side of the room, pouring two large scotches.

Bodie just shook his head.

 _Meaning, “I’m not allowed to tell you”. Why mention it, then?_ “I’d never have taken you for an animal-lover.”

“I’m not.” A very definite reply.

Doyle raised an eyebrow as he passed the glass over.

Bodie shrugged. “It jumped up on me. I’m not about to throw it across the room, am I?”

 _Big softie._ He didn’t say it, just sat down on the arm of the settee, close to Bodie’s head. “What time d’you get here?”

“Um. ‘bout ten, ten thirty.”

“Working solid since you left this morning?”

“Mmm.”

“Thought so. I’ll get this beast settled. You go to bed.”

There was no argument.

“Should I shut the kitchen door? Make sure it stays there?”

“Up to you. D’you want it to feel at home?” A yawn. “Or d’you want to recognise your furniture in the morning?”

“Mmm. I don’t want to lock it in. I’ll keep our door shut, though.” He got out of bed, and was back in less than a minute.

“What time should I set the alarm for?”

“Oh.” Bodie struggled to marshall his few functioning brain-cells. “Seven. No, better make it six thirty.” He was nearly asleep again by the time Doyle rolled against him, and not much more alert at six thirty the next morning.

Doyle watched him as he searched in the wardrobe for his clothes. “Is it going to be like this all week?”

“Could be. I’ll stay away. You won’t want me asleep on my feet like this.”

“No. Don’t.”

Bodie nodded, and fastened his tie.

“Bodie?” Very tentative. “Have you ever thought of leaving CI5?”

Bodie turned round. They stared at each other.

“No. I haven’t.”

“They muck you about _so_ much. There must be easier ways of making a living.”

“What, like the force? Different shift every week. One day you’re at a football match, the next you’re bringing home stray dogs. I know when I’m well off.”

“If you say so.”

There was silence while Bodie finished dressing. He stopped in the doorway, and looked down at the bed, then stepped forward and leant down, wary. Doyle raised a hand to pull him down, and they kissed briefly.

“See you tonight, Ray. Take care.”

“And you.”

* * * * *

Doyle finally got up just before ten. The dog ran to greet him as soon as he entered the sitting room. It just seemed friendly, not frantic, so he guessed it had had a good night, and deduced from the half-empty tin in the fridge that Bodie had fed the animal before he left. He surveyed the kitchen and living-room for damage, but they looked fine. Far better than usual, actually. Maybe Bodie only got domestic urges when he was asleep on his feet. Bless him.

He went into the station early, taking the dog with him. He discovered that the dog’s owner had been released from hospital, and would not be charged, so his dog could safely be returned. Doyle got the address, and delivered his guest. The man was grateful, and offered to pay for the dog-food.

“No, don’t bother. It was no trouble.” Though that was Bodie’s line. He told the man that the dog should see a vet, using that special copper’s tone of voice to discourage the man from asking why it hadn’t already been taken to one.

It was a quiet day. Maybe the neighbourhood had heard about the fight the night before, and was behaving itself. The story might well have got out, because there had been one very unpleasant injury. One man had been hit in the face (glassed, probably), and his tongue had split almost all of the way along its length. He had fallen on his back in the pub, and had been in the process of drowning in his own blood when the police arrived. A policewoman had turned him onto his side in time, and he was recovering. It was an injury that Doyle didn’t like to think about - imagine having stitches in your tongue. Would it heal properly? He shook his head vigorously to get rid of the thought, and asked West what films he’d seen recently.

* * * * *

Bodie put in an appearance each night that week, but he wasn’t much fun. Doyle just fed him and poured him scotches, and kept him warm in bed.

“Suppose you’re working the weekend?” It was Friday, and Doyle had Saturday off. He wasn’t looking forward to spending it on his own.

“Just Sunday. On stand-by. Got some files to read.”

Doyle turned his head on the pillow. “You just want to sleep, don’t you?”

“Well ... uh ...”

“’s OK. As long as you do it here.”

Bodie shifted his grip on Doyle’s shoulder, and took a deep breath. “Way this job’s shaping up, I may have to go out of town again.”

“Oh, God.” Disgusted. “For how long? And where?”

“Dover. Could be ... odd days here and there. Could be weeks. There’s a few blokes there at the moment, just setting things up. Could get ... big.”

“Oh. Well. Write. And ... stay here when you’re in town? I like knowing you’re around, even if I don’t see much of you.”

“Same here. Alison’s back soon, though, isn’t she? Can’t take the risk that I’ll barge in on you.”

“She’s not going to be here every night. Can’t we just ...”

Bodie was shaking his head. “Best if I call beforehand. Make sure.”

“What if I’m not in? Gone out to the shops, or ... held up at the station? Hate the thought that I’d miss you just because of that.”

“Me too, but -“

“Can’t we have some sort of signal? So you’d know if she was in with me?”

“Like?”

“Um.” A frowning silence. “I’ll leave something on the dashboard of the car. That book you gave me at Christmas. So you just have to check in the car when you come round.”

“Good thinking.”

* * * * *

Bodie slept until Saturday afternoon, barely stirring when Doyle got up and started on the housework. He went shopping - specifically for Jaffa Cakes for Bodie - and came back with a selection of videos, having decided on a lazy evening in. They never saw the end of the second film. Bodie was back to his usual energetic self, and he wanted to spend even more time in bed.

He left at eight the next morning to go into HQ and pick up the reports, which he was going to read at his own flat.

“Will you come back when you’re finished?”

“When I’m off duty. See you off to work.”

“Mmm. Last week with Terry. For three months, anyway.”

“Must be a relief. You heard anything about your next kiddie?”

“Nah. Won’t even know his name until he turns up on his first day and introduces himself. The Met just doesn’t take Tutors seriously, you know.”

“Why not? Seems the best way of starting the youngsters off on the streets. You can’t just send them out on their own.”

“I know. But they’ve given up because there aren’t enough Tutors to go round. You need a smart, experienced constable and we’re thin on the ground because the pay’s crap - or it was until recently - and everyone knows that uniform is the lowest form of life. D’you know nearly half of my relief is probationers? Well, they can’t tutor each other, can they? I’m pretty well the only qualified Tutor in the division.”

Bodie was suppressing a smile. “You ever thought of leaving the force, Ray?”

“Nope. Not really, anyway. They need me.”

A raised eyebrow. “Sounds like it.”

“You taking the piss?”

“Uh-uh.” Very serious now. “I know what it’s like to need you, too.”

“Oh.” Utterly disarmed. “Bodie. Hurry through those reports will you?”

* * * * *

Alison called on Sunday afternoon. She was back in the Hall. Term didn’t start for another week, and she had some essays to write in that week, but she was keen for them to meet before his next leave. He picked Wednesday at random, and invited himself round to South Kensington. She was also pressing for the double-date, so he suggested the following Monday, the next-to-last day of his four-day leave. Maybe it _was_ a good idea to mark the end of this stint with Terry. He still sulked for a while though, after putting the ‘phone down.

He sulked even more after his next ‘phone call. Bodie had been called into work, and would be able to get to Kentish Town either very late, or not at all.

“Why? You off to Dover already?”

“No. No, not yet. I’ll make it tomorrow. I promise.”

“Hmm. You told Cowley that?”

* * * * *

 _Oh, sod it._ The frustration settled firmly between his legs. He just knew he wouldn’t see Bodie all week, whether he was in Dover or not. Would he even write?

He arched his hips off the bed and pushed his jeans down to mid-thigh. Easy choice today. The images had been crowding, waiting for over a week. The showers at the club, and this time he let himself look. The other men looked too, envying him, moving closer.

Bodie had not arrived by the time he left for work. There was no change, no note when he got home. Depressing, even though he’d expected it.

The weather was unusually hot for mid-April, but unpleasantly so - humid and over-cast. He slept badly, got up at mid-day, and decided it would be better outdoors than in. _A jog on Hampstead Heath? Well, a walk, maybe._ Who wanted to sweat on a day like this?

He started out without a plan, but ended up at Highgate cemetery, just as a tour was about to start. The place looked more like a jungle than ever - he could practically see steam coming off the ivy. Ages since he’d last been there, with a girlfriend who was heavily into vampires and Hammer Horror movies. He couldn’t even remember her name now. Did she still come here to admire the catacombs?

At the end of the tour he asked idly if they needed more conservation workers, and was given a pamphlet entitled “Friends of Highgate Cemetery”. Maybe he could drag Bodie along one Sunday. Could be fun.

He walked home slowly. The sky had turned an unnerving yellow colour, like mustard, and the trees seemed very bright against it. The rain was going to be like a waterfall when it came. Still, he didn’t hurry. It was only water. He was enjoying himself. It had been a long time since he’d done this sort of tourist thing. He’d almost forgotten how huge and ancient London was, how much he loved it. When he joined the Met he’d barely visited the city before, had applied because ... well, it seemed to offer the most opportunities, but within six months he’d known he could never leave. He was mesmerised by it - by the size, the age, the chaos, the power, the indifference. It might not be beautiful or elegant like some cities, but beauty and elegance mean “predictable”, and, in the end, “boring”. Boredom was not a problem he’d had in London.

By the time he got home he was soaked. He had a long bath and then curled up in the armchair with a coffee and the book Bodie had given him for Christmas - he ought to read it before he put it to work on the dashboard. Although he started it out of a sense of duty - after all it was months since he’d needed to freeze his cock into submission - he was soon fascinated. It wouldn’t have worked as a cold-shower book anyway, since it was concerned less with evoking the hardships of polar exploration than with pulverising the reputation of Scott.

He was about a third of the way through when a key turned in the front door.

“You made it.” A surprised, delighted smile.

“Said I would.”

“Yes, but - Have you eaten?”

* * * * *

Bodie lay on the bed and watched Doyle get changed for work.

“Aren’t those your uniform trousers?”

“Mmm. Uniform shoes, shirt, tie.” He gestured from feet to neck “Half-blues.”

“Don’t you usually go in jeans?”

“Depends. On what I’m doing before or after. Since I’m going straight there, and coming straight back ...” A shrug. “Saves changing again.”

“I’ve never seen you in the full gear. When I came round after the football match ... you were like that.”

“Probably never will. Unless you make a point of hunting me down one day. Why? You kinky for uniforms or something?”

Bodie shrugged, and said nothing. It wasn’t as simple as that. The fact was he was jealous. Jealous of all of the rest of Ray’s life, of the people who spent time with him when he was working, the people who saw him in his uniform. All those hours when he was out of sight. It hurt to let him go. Every time.

He raised himself off the bed, and enfolded Doyle in his arms. The shirt was newly-cleaned and crisp, the body inside it firm and slender.

Doyle could feel Bodie’s erection, pressing and growing against his thigh. Always welcome, but ... He drew back his head. “We haven’t time, Bodie. And -“

“I know.” Bodie let him go.

“Will I see you tomorrow?”

“I don’t know. I’ll call if I can. Don’t forget the book.”

* * * * *

Bodie didn’t call on Tuesday, or appear in the evening. Doyle sighed periodically, and finished the book, coming away with the impression that Scott was unfit to organise a trip to the local chippy, let alone a polar expedition. Strange that the legend had lasted so long if that was the truth. Still, the author seemed to have done a lot of work, unearthed some damning letters and reports. Who knows?

On Wednesday he met Alison for lunch and then went back to her room. They caught up with the news, or at least with the news that was fit for the other to hear. He left shortly after three, and went straight home to sleep. There had been nothing for him in the second post. Where _was_ Bodie?

He was in Dover, or had been on Tuesday night, according to the letter which arrived on Thursday. Just a short trip, he hoped, to catch up with what was going on.

 _How short is “short”? One night? Two?_ Was he already back in town? Doyle ‘phoned, but there was no reply. Well, it _was_ the middle of the day. You wouldn’t expect him to be in. _Maybe this evening._ And maybe not.

He decided to go to a film in the early evening - the flat was getting on his nerves, all his music bored him, the books seemed unreadable. When he got up, he nipped out for a copy of “Time Out”, and read through the reviews over coffee and Jaffa Cakes. At the end he was undecided, but they all seemed to start around six, so he’d just head for Leicester Square and toss a coin. Before leaving he called Bodie again, and again got no reply.

After the film he ‘phoned again, from a call box, trying Bodie’s flat first, and then his own, realising after three rings that Bodie would _never_ answer the ‘phone in his flat. Still, he let it ring for nearly half a minute.

It was nearly nine. Hardly worth going back to the flat. He bought a bike magazine from a news-stand and went to Bunjies for a cappuccino or three. Bunjies was another discovery he’d made via a girlfriend. He’d forgotten her name ( _Judy, maybe?_ ), but he did remember that she’d always described the place as “somewhere young existentialists go to read Sartre and bully their girlfriends”. It was one of her favourite lines - he’d never _quite_ worked out what she meant.

There was a note on his pillow on Friday morning, and the remaining Jaffa Cakes had gone. He swore, at length.

“Back with Stone on Wednesday,” Doyle remarked during the night.

“Yup,” agreed West. “Barbara’s been asking what he’s like. Just in the last few weeks.”

“Got one of her friends in mind, has she?”

Terry laughed, but didn’t reply.

“So she hasn’t met him? He’s been driving for - what? - a year.”

“No. He’s - Well, they wouldn’t get on.”

Doyle raised an eyebrow. “Still on for Monday?”

“Oh yeah. Where d’you fancy eating?”

* * * * *

Doyle didn’t stray far from the flat over the weekend. The idea of hovering by the ‘phone annoyed him on principle, but he really had no urge to do anything else while he was missing Bodie so constantly. Once more the longing centred between his legs, and he worked through a lot of fantasies. It occurred to him, idly, that none of them featured him fucking Bodie between his thighs. Too soon, probably. These things take time to sink into the unconscious.

In his spare time he maintained his bike, working in the car park behind the block. He left all of the windows and doors open, wanting to be sure of hearing the ‘phone when it rang. This didn’t look too odd, since the weather was fine - he could say he was just airing the place.

After the sun disappeared behind the neighbouring block on Sunday afternoon, the temperature dropped and he started thinking about going in. He was sorting through his toolbox when a car drew into the car park. A silver Capri. Bodie knelt beside him, helped pack the tools away.

Whispered: “Bed.”

Bodie nodded without looking at him, and they rose and went indoors.

By seven in the morning, Bodie was gone again, and they had no clear idea of when he would be back.

* * * * *

The double date was about as bad as Doyle had expected. They met at “The Nag’s Head” in Covent Garden. Doyle arrived very early, wanting to make sure they got a table - for some reason awkward silences never seem so obvious when you’re sitting down, and he wanted to be prepared. Terry and Barbara arrived together, and were surprised that Alison was arriving on her own. Doyle gathered that he was out of touch with standards of gentlemanly behaviour.

Soon after Alison appeared they headed into Soho for a Malaysian meal - there was little argument, since the schedule had been decided over the preceding week. It was not a comfortable evening, at least for Doyle. He wondered what an observer would make of their group. He and Barbara did a most of the talking: she was chatty by nature; he was making an effort because his natural desire was to sulk. However, he couldn’t make himself behave as Alison’s boyfriend, showed no signs of intimacy, rarely spoke directly to her. Did she notice? Maybe not - she was on good terms with Barbara again, and seemed happy just catching up with her.

Thinking about it in bed the next day after Alison had left for her first lecture, he decided that it hadn’t been _that_ much worse than double-dates he’d been on in the past. In fact, there had been a time when he’d _preferred_ multiple dates because they meant that there were blokes to talk to when he’d gone through his list of “things you can say to girls”. Of course, he had been pretty young then.

Some of the best double dates had been with Mike Russell. He sighed, remembering, feeling guilty that he barely thought of him now.

Mike had had a strangely detached attitude towards sex. He talked about it a lot - most of the time, it seemed - - and he was fascinated by the oddities of desire, but with an abstract sympathy that was quite absent from the articles in “The Sun” from which he drew his material. But he would rarely acknowledge the emotions and complications involved in sex. It wasn’t that he dismissed them as women’s magazine nonsense - they just didn’t interest him. What interested him were detailed technical descriptions, and the occasional shared wank with Ray Doyle.

Had he done that with all his partners? Doyle had never thought about it before, had dismissed it as boredom, and too much spunk and nothing worthwhile to do with it, but ... Mike had deliberately set out to get him going most of the time, hadn’t he? Had Mike been ... courting him? Strewth. Poor Mike.

* * * * *

At ten to six on Wednesday morning, Doyle was leaning against the wall in the parade room, looking out for any fresh new face, and envying West and Stone their extra hour in bed. The probationers started arriving from the section house, and he pushed himself off the wall.

 _Oh. Shit._ She was short - only an inch or so above minimum height, he would say - and looking around with a firmly suppressed excitement, trying to pretend it wasn’t her first day. _No point putting it off._

“You’re just out of Hendon?”

She nodded, shortly.

“I’m Ray Doyle. Your Tutor Constable.” He thought about holding out his hand, but it didn’t seem right with a woman.

“Ruth Garrett. I didn’t think the Met _had_ Tutors any more.”

“Most divisions don’t, but -“ The inspector had arrived, and the shift had started.

* * * * *

They went straight out on foot patrol - later he’d take her back to the station and show her around, but there wasn’t much point this early in the day.

She was certainly a very self-possessed youngster. Cool. With no bursts of the puppyish enthusiasm that he sometimes saw even in Terry. Not that she seemed bored. Just ... waiting. Taking things in. Making her own mind up. He had a feeling it was not going to be an easy six weeks.

Already she looked at home in the uniform, which sat neatly on her rather boyish build. Everything about her seemed neat, contained, from her speech to her curly, dark-brown hair, cut much shorter than his. She was assessing him too - it was a morning of sideways glances.

“You _from_ London?” He couldn’t tell from her accent, which was neutral middle-class.

“No. Edinburgh.”

Now _that_ he wouldn’t have guessed. “Big move.” _... for a little girl._ “Your first time in the big city, then?”

Raised eyebrows. “Hardly. I went to King’s College. In The Strand.”

A pause while he took that in, and re-arranged his assumptions. “You’re a graduate?”

“’sright.”

“What did you study?” He might as well know the worst. Just not English, please - no late-night monologues about books he’d never heard of being made into films he’d never seen.

“Computer Science.”

“Oh.” He’d never touched a computer. Not unless you counted playing “Space Invaders” with Mike Russell or “Donkey Kong” with Bodie, and you probably didn’t. “What are you doing in the force, then? Lot of money in computing, isn’t there?”

A deep sigh. “Long story. Let’s save it for some boring night shift, eh?”

 _Well. That told_ me. But he wasn’t offended - much - rather, getting the scent of some interesting battles ahead. “So you’re off to Staff College when you’ve finished with us, then?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Come back in five years as my inspector?”

She shrugged. They both knew it could happen.

* * * * *

“How long’ve you been with the force?”

“Thirteen years. More or less.”

She studied him openly. “That’s a long time. You always been here?” Pointing at the ground.

“Since I got through probation, yeah. So that makes it ... nine years. I was a cadet too,” he added before she could ask about the two extra years.

“You never thought of moving on?” Mildly puzzled.

A twitch of the eyebrows. “That’s another long story.” To his surprise she grinned at him, showing small, sharp-looking teeth. Ah, well, she could take it as well as dish it out. _Let’s see how she does with civilians. And with the rest of the force._

* * * * *

It was an interesting first week, and by the end of it he was quietly (and grudgingly) impressed with WPC Garrett. The relief was never exactly kind to new arrivals, and also had clear ideas about who did and did not belong. Garrett seemed oblivious to all hints. Maybe she went back to her room at the end of each shift and cried her eyes out, or kicked something helpless. Doyle would have given a lot to know.

Letters arrived from Bodie, with a variety of London postmarks. God knows what he was doing. He wished Doyle luck with his new “kiddie”: “I know you’ll dry him off behind the ears in no time”. Hard to relate that to Garrett.

He was missing him, a muted, continuous absence. Part of his mind treated all of Garrett’s oddities as a tale to tell Bodie. A shame they’d never meet.

Instead, the first person to hear the tale was Alison, who he met on Monday. She’d already heard something about Garrett - via Terry and Barbara - and was full of curiosity.

“Isn’t she making things difficult for herself? I wouldn’t have thought a woman graduate would exactly fit in.”

“She doesn’t, but there’s no way she’s going to admit it.”

“Why d’you think she’s doing it? She could have a cushy job with ... IBM, or something.”

“I don’t know. Maybe she had a bet with someone.”

Alison laughed. “Maybe she’s already lost.”

“What do you fancy doing?” he asked sometime later, sure she’d suggest some film he’d already seen in his Bodie-less evenings. She surprised him.

“I fancy going to see ‘Dr. Faustus’.”

He looked blank.

“It’s on at ‘The Fortune’. It’s had good reviews. Mostly.”

“It’s a film?”

“A play. Marlowe.” A pause. “No. Never mind. It was just a suggestion.”

“No. But would we be able to get tickets? Don’t you have to book weeks in advance for these things?”

“Only for the tourist fodder. Weekday evening. Obscure play. We’d get student standbys no problem.”

“OK.” He grinned. “Sounds worth a try. I haven’t seen a play since ‘Jesus Christ Superstar’ with a bunch of the lads. That must have been all of six years ago.”

She smiled, resisting the urge to tell him that “Jesus Christ Superstar” was a musical, not a play.

“D’you do this often? Just turn up at the theatre, like you might with a film?”

A shrug. “I go through phases. Sometimes I’ll see three plays in a week, and sometimes I won’t go to anything in months.”

* * * * *

“Well, what did you think?” she asked as they walked to the tube.

“I dunno. It had some good bits, but ... it didn’t really seem to hang together. What about you?”

“Oh, I agree. I think they did their best, though. I mean, what can you do with a play that was written half by a genius, and half by a hack who wouldn’t get a job with ‘The Sun’?”

He shrugged. _Am I supposed to know what she’s talking about?_

“I think they overdid the gay aspect, don’t you? It seems to be the automatic thing with Marlowe these days. And maybe they thought the play needed all the publicity it could get.”

Another shrug, though this time he _did_ have an opinion. The gay aspects of the play had certainly been too much for his comfort. Now if _Bodie_ had asked him about the play, he would have said, “It’s about these half-naked men groping each other on a oval table. Oh, and some bloke sold his soul to the devil.” One of them had looked a bit like Bodie - from behind, anyway, though Bodie’s back had more personality. Still, the resemblance was strong enough to have an effect on him, and make him close his eyes and shift in his seat.

Much later, he found himself lying awake beside the sleeping Alison, wondering yet again what she got out of this. She was like Garrett in some ways - a puzzle, strangely untouched by the people around her. Maybe she was using him, too. Before Bodie, he would have counted himself lucky to have found her, not worried at all about her side of things. He had changed, obviously. For the better?

* * * * *

Alison had a morning lecture, so he got up to make her breakfast, and then went back to bed, though he never got to sleep again. Still, he dreamt, or at least images appeared in his mind that he felt he did not own. He was on the stage, just him and the man with Bodie’s back, whose buttocks were as firm a handful as they looked. The man was wearing tight breeches, which were suddenly unlaced, and obeying his eager hands. Such strong white thighs, such -

He sat up in bed, and rubbed his palms hard over his face and scalp. _Damn_. That was supposed to be sorted out. For a change, the cold shower helped.

Wednesday brought a letter from Dover, a short, subdued letter, which made Doyle want to write back immediately, but there was no address. What would life be like if Bodie had a nine-to-five job?

Doyle regarded earlies as almost a holiday. Lates were what sorted the men from the boys - or the women from the girls. For the first time he saw Garrett nervous, saw her settling down to learn from him, not just paperwork and procedures, but techniques and attitude. On Friday they went for a quick drink after work, and started using Christian names - it had been the same with all of his other probationers, he was sure.

It was a chilly night, and when he got home he realised that the timer on the central heating was not yet on British Summer Time - any bedtime heat had gone straight out of the window. He undressed quickly, and shrugged into the old lumberjack shirt that served as his pyjamas.

The mattress dipped, tumbling him from a dreamless sleep, and he was enclosed in heat.

“Euh?” He raised his head to look at the bedside clock: it was 6.49. “Ahh.” Turning, he met a mouth as hungry as his own.

Bodie was naked and aroused. He broke the kiss to deal with the buttons on the lumberjack shirt, then crouched over Doyle, who watched captivated as the tongue-tip lapped gently at his right nipple. It always melted him - the sight of this man, this tough, fighting man doing this to him. His cock prodded the edge of Bodie’s ribcage, and Bodie slid down.

With immense self-control, Doyle tugged at the cropped hair. “Please, not like this. Can I ...?” He didn’t know how to say it. “Can I?” He drew his own thighs together, and gestured between them.

Bodie understood immediately and rolled onto his back, legs pressed tight. Doyle hadn’t yet got used to this sight - it seemed such a formal position for sex, certainly for passion. Still, that didn’t seem to make much difference once he was started.

* * * * *

It was Bodie’s racing heart-beat that roused him from his satisfied sprawl - it thudded against his ribs, fluttered against his lips as they pressed against the strong neck. He kissed the pulse point, tracing it with his tongue, but Bodie’s moan held more of pain than of pleasure, so he immediately moved down the bed to ease the pain with his mouth. _Cocksucker_ , he thought complacently as he swallowed, loving the careless power of the arching body.

“Finally,” Doyle breathed, “you get the weekend off. I’m on lates. Could be worse. Guess what? My ‘kiddie’ -“

Bodie was shaking his head. “I’m supposed to be on my way back to Dover. Got to get a move on. I’ll get enough of a bollicking as it is.” He disappeared into the bathroom.

Doyle lay for over a minute staring at the ceiling: strange how one moment you could be pleased with life, and the next ...

“Have you got _any_ time off?” He’d dragged his dressing gown on, and was sitting on the edge of the bed. Bodie was dragging his clothes on with such speed you would have thought the building was on fire.

“Maybe Monday. Not sure. I’ll call.” He bent for a quick, closed-mouthed kiss. “Take care, sweetheart.”

The front door to the flat slammed closed at 7.17.

Doyle frowned deeply, making his face look battered and ugly. He closed his eyes and slumped, sighing. His cock felt cold and sticky against his legs, limp as if it would never fill again, and his nipples were raw and tender against the towelling. He took a shower.

* * * * *

He distracted himself that afternoon by talking to Ruth, asking her about Edinburgh, and computers, and anything else that occurred to him, though he didn’t expect to understand half of her replies, especially about computers. However, she steered clear of jargon, and actually left him with the idea that he might be capable of using one himself, given the chance. She told him about the first program she’d written at the age of fifteen, and about the first time she’d stayed up till four in the morning trying to get a program to work, refusing to be beaten by a mere machine.

“It’s probably not something you can understand unless you’ve done it,” she said, “but most people who work with computers seem to go through that stage - and some never get out of it. I really don’t think there’s anything quite like it. It’s ...” She raised her hands. “... the purest form of mental challenge there is. A fight to the death. Woman against machine.” Her tone was mocking, but it didn’t hide the enthusiasm.

“D’you still do it?”

“Not really. I hardly did any programming in my last year, and now ... I haven’t come across anything I desperately need a program for. I need to have a problem to solve, you see, I can’t just doodle. I’ve got a machine, but I mostly play games on it.”

“What sort of games?”

“Oh. ‘Donkey Kong’. ‘Frogger’. Adventure games.”

“Not ‘Space Invaders’?”

“Uh-uh. I find all that war and space-battle stuff really tedious. I need something I can relate to, like cute little frogs getting splatted on a motorway.”

He surprised himself by inviting Ruth and her computer around for a meal. She would be the first copper to set foot in his flat, and the third guest, after Bodie and Alison.

“That’d be great. Have to warn you: the computer’s a fussy eater. She won’t touch garlic or cabbage.” So, she had her frivolous side.

“Well, what about Tuesday? It’s the only evening we’ll have free for a while.”

It was settled.

* * * * *

The sight of his empty bed undid all of Garrett’s good work. No. He was missing him, that was all. It was disappointment - always got him like this.

There was a letter in the morning, much longer than the last few. Reading it in the kitchen, he could hear Bodie’s voice, as if the man was standing next to him.

 “I wish you were here, Ray. Or, no, I wouldn’t wish that on you. Anson and Murph are chain smoking, and I lost the toss and I’m bunking down with Torrance, who’s got a snore like elephants mating. I wish I was back in town with you. There are eight of us here now, and Petrie’s due down tomorrow. I don’t know if this means the operation’s wrapping up, or just starting. I’m writing this in the kitchen. It’s the quietest room. No one comes in here unless they’ve lost the bet and have to make coffee for everyone in the flat. I said I wanted peace and quiet to read some reports.

Murph was just in. He made me a coffee, asked about the reports. I said I was taking some notes. God, this is boring, I’m sorry. I wish I was doing something interesting, for your sake. I’m just rabbiting on because I need to chat to you.”

 _I need to chat to you, too, Bodie. I miss you._ If only he had an address, could write back. _Well, there’s his flat. I could write there. He’s obviously in town some of the time. Maybe they’d even forward it._ It didn’t occur to him that CI5 might open Bodie’s mail - or maybe it did, and he didn’t care.

He started on the letter as soon as he was dressed. It ended up as a very long letter, describing an eventful fortnight. Any lingering hurt about his awakening on Saturday morning had gone by the time he finished, and he just said, “I wish you could have stayed longer yesterday.” After all, would he have preferred that Bodie stayed away altogether? He posted the letter on the way to the station.

* * * * *

On Tuesday evening he drove to the section house to pick up Ruth and her computer. The machine wasn’t particularly heavy, but with the keyboard and the cassette machine and a selection of taped programs it made an awkward load. She set it up on a coffee table in front of the TV while he made a salad to go with the lasagne.

It was a good evening. They had a “Frogger” tournament, which she won narrowly. She took her “Frogger” very seriously, which amused him, but also made him realise that the calmness she showed at work did not come naturally. Of course, that made it more of an achievement, but it was as well to know that there was a temper in there.

After the first bottle of wine, she said her reaction times weren’t up to any more arcade games, and they moved onto a text adventure game with a Sherlock Holmes theme. They got almost nowhere - after an hour they were still stuck in a locked cellar in Whitechapel - but they had fun getting there.

Finally they wrote a very simple computer program which prompted for your name, and then said hello to you. Doyle got quite a kick out of seeing his name appear on the screen. It would have seemed like magic if he hadn’t seen how it was done.

“But it’s simple.”

“Yes.” Ruth nodded vigorously.

“It just does what you tell it. Is that really all there is to it?”

“Pretty well. Hardly seems worth getting a degree for, does it?”

“So that’s what ‘Frogger’ is? A program like that?”

“Well, a very _long_ program. I don’t know that _I_ could write it - I never went in for graphics.”

He hesitated, then, “Could you teach me a bit more?”

“Sure. But a person isn’t the best teacher for this. I’ll lend you a book, and you can work through it at your own pace if you want. Don’t be nervous of her - you can’t harm her ... unless you throw her out of the window.”

“You’d leave her here?”

“If she won’t get in your way. I’ll bring the book in tomorrow.”

She left shortly after eleven. There was no suggestion or hint whatever that she might stay the night. It just wasn’t going to be like that, though the rest of the relief wouldn’t be convinced.

After she’d gone, he made some coffee, moved onto the scotch, and had another look around the cellar. To his surprise he found a loose paving stone, and under that a handy, pocket axe, which he used to smash the door down. However, half an hour later he was set upon by a werewolf and bled to death in a gutter. Just not his night. He gave up.

* * * * *

At nine thirty the next evening, he was in half-blues and had just decided to drive to the station since it had started to rain in the last ten minutes. He was making a last cup of coffee to warm himself up and see off the hangover.

A car drove up outside the flats - driving too fast, really, in those weather conditions - and a car door slammed. Doyle turned round, delighted, at the sound of the key in the door.

“Bodie!” Seconds later he was in his arms.

Bodie’s erection was apparent immediately and hardened further as his hands moved over Doyle’s back and buttocks.

“Bodie.” Indistinctly, through lips taken over by Bodie. “I have to go to work. Can you wait till I get back? Please.”

Bodie shook his head, eyes dark and intent. His hand tightened on Doyle’s buttocks, then shifted to rub along the cleft. He knew what he was doing; he obviously knew what he wanted. Doyle had always found his certainty and directness attractive. He didn’t try to stop the hands that undid his flies, and after only a few seconds’ attention from those hands, he was as urgent as the other man.

When both of them had their trousers round their ankles, they clung together for a deep, messy kiss. Bodie circled Doyle’s anus with a finger, and Doyle spread his legs as wide as he could. There were so many nerves there; why should there be so many nerves unless it was for this?

“Where’s your oil?” Tightly, unsmiling.

“Oil?”

“Cooking oil. Olive oil. You know.”

Doyle reached backwards and opened the cupboard above his head.

The oil felt strange. Warm, and it didn’t seem to want to stay in one place. He felt slippery, and completely open. He braced himself against the kitchen unit as he was penetrated. It always felt bigger, harder than he was expecting. Didn’t hurt, but it was always ... a surprise. The hand that grasped him was also warm and slippery with oil; it felt so good, so right, that he knew that he would not last long.

* * * * *

Doyle counted it as simultaneous, though a pedant might have insisted that Bodie came first. He shuffled round, oil and semen trickling down his legs.

“Oh, love.” He leaned into a gentle kiss. “What a way to say hello. Promise me more in the morning.”

But Bodie was shaking his head. Doyle slumped, knowing what was coming next.

“I can’t stay the night, Ray. I’m off back to Dover. I had to swap with Torrance to get a bit more time.”

“All that effort for a quick fuck? I’m impressed.”

Bodie frowned. “Don’t.” He swallowed, and stroked Doyle’s arms. “I wanted to see you. So much. Would you rather I’d stayed away?”

“Write, will you? Give me some warning next time?”

“Sure.”

Bodie was busy with kitchen towel. He cleaned himself, and pulled his trousers up, then he dabbed at Doyle’s buttocks. Doyle snatched the paper from him.

“Well, get going then, if you’re in such a hurry.”

Bodie reached out for him, then faltered, watching his face. His hands dropped to his sides, he backed out of the kitchen, and was gone.

Doyle hitched his trousers up and hobbled to the bathroom. A flannel and soap were all he had time for, though he was desperate for a shower. He was nearly late for work as it was.

* * * * *

It _would_ have to be a night shift. Nothing to do but think, and listen to Garrett complaining about the section house. She’d asked if she could take her housing allowance and find somewhere on the open market, but was told she couldn’t, that this period in the section house was important in the development of a police-officer. She thought this was a pile of crap and said so.

“I think my personal development will take care of itself without having to listen to a horde of 18-year-olds getting drunk every night and comparing erections. Or is this supposed to be preparation for dealing with the base side of human nature on the streets?”

Doyle had heard little of that last sentence. “Comparing erections? Are you sure? It didn’t happened when I was there. Or at least I wasn’t invited.”

She laughed and shrugged. “Well. Heavy duty boys’ talk, anyway. I think they’re keeping me in there in the hope of bringing me down a peg or two.”

Doyle grunted, sure that she was right, and thinking that if he were her superior officer he’d probably insist she stay too.

She ran out of complaints eventually, or caught his mood, and they fell into a silence that was undisturbed by any calls.

His arse was tingling, almost sore, and he hadn’t managed to get rid of all of the oil and semen; he was positive it was still trickling out of him. It was the first time he’d come onto shift straight after being fucked, and it was a strange experience.

It could have been a wonderful, exciting secret - if Bodie hadn’t rushed off, if he could have stayed to sleep in their bed and be there in the morning, if they’d exchanged more than a few terse words about lubricant. As it was, Doyle felt adrift, empty, like a ship gutted by fire. It might have been better if the sex hadn’t been so ... overwhelming. Yes, overwhelming, that was it; he felt as if he’d been swamped, taken over. It was disturbing and depressing.

In addition to that he was just plain angry. He would _not_ be treated like that. Did Bodie just want him for sex? Well, what else was he to make of this - and the last time? It would take more than a letter about Murph making coffee to make up for _this_. He would _never_ have done something like this to Bodie ... not that he could see himself having the chance.

A few times that night Doyle tried to bring himself out of his depression, berating himself for his insecurity. How could he be this angry with Bodie, who loved him so much, and had proved it so often? How could he complain about stunning sex? It was just the long separation, making him want more, forcing things out of perspective. But ... why didn’t Bodie feel the separation that way too?

He and Garrett returned to the station for their meal break. A lot of the relief had been in the canteen for much of the night - there really was nothing going on. It would probably be educational for Garrett if they stuck around, but he couldn’t bear the idea, and led the way out after the allotted 45 minutes. Terry said something about setting Garrett a good example, and there were other comments which he hoped Ruth didn’t hear properly.

Dawn was breaking when he finally focused on a nagging feeling of familiarity. Another image of Bodie with his trousers around his ankles, his erect cock poking up under his shirt, about to take what he wanted. An image just over a year old. He wanted it to go away, but it wouldn’t.

* * * * *

He slept badly, and woke feeling emptier than he had during the long night. When would he stop feeling like this? When Bodie came back and they sorted this out. When Bodie made it up to him.

That was most of the problem, that Bodie was away. He’d been angry with him before, worse than this even, but not for long - a shouting match, a few threats, and it was over. Now ... he was angry _and_ he was missing him - enough to disturb anyone.

Every couple had their tricky moments, even when the world was helping them along. Yeah. When you thought about it, thought about all that was stacked against them, they were doing bloody well. This feeling _would_ end. Remember the night of the angel glasses, their anniversary. Only a month away. So close he could reach out and touch it. What they had couldn’t change so much in a month. There was nothing really wrong. He just wanted Bodie back.

* * * * *

It was fortunate that Doyle did not know what Bodie was doing that day. He would have been incoherent with rage, and an angry Ray Doyle could surprise even himself.

There were six CI5 men in Dover by that time, all staying in a two-bedroomed flat near the docks. Murphy and Anson had been there the longest, and had sampled all that Dover had to offer (they said), and told the later arrivals that all it had going for it was a fish restaurant off the High-Street. The men had been going there every day, sometimes twice a day. It broke the monotony, and there was the challenge of trying to chat up that Italian-looking waitress with the wicked grin and the no-nonsense manner.

Bodie had gone to the restaurant for the first time on Saturday evening. He’d joined in with the banter for form’s sake, but he hadn’t put much effort into it.

He had been thinking about Ray. Maybe he shouldn’t have gone to see him, shouldn’t have woken him up like that. He’d looked confused and unhappy at the end, and that frightened Bodie very much. But he couldn’t have stayed away. He was addicted to the man, and seeing him asleep and rumpled ...

He couldn’t help it. Not having seen him for nearly a fortnight ...

It had been difficult, thinking about Ray and Alison, knowing she was back in town while he was away. Ray never mentioned her any more. That was a bad sign. And if she wanted him, as anyone must, how could he, Bodie, keep him? What did he have to offer? Nothing. He knew that. Nothing.

* * * * *

He’d looked sad in the restaurant on Saturday, sad and thoughtful. His colleagues hadn’t seemed to notice, had carried on with the jokes that they hadn’t tired of after nearly three weeks. But Teresa noticed, and on Sunday lunchtime she’d asked Lucas and McCabe where their handsome friend was, the pale one with the short, black hair and the long eye-lashes. They’d reacted extravagantly (they always did), and rushed back to the flat with the exciting news.

It was the first thing they told Bodie when he arrived on Wednesday night, far more important than the progress of the operation. He managed to react with the appropriate sniggery anticipation, though he could barely take it in.

He’d had a terrible drive down, haunted by the final sight he’d had of Ray’s face. Of course he shouldn’t have done it. Of course. But he’d been to his flat, and he’d read Ray’s letter, and ... This “Ruth”. Pages and pages about her. And she spent eight hours with him every day. Bodie could barely imagine such fortune for himself. He’d gone round just to talk, but ... Seeing him in uniform ... And what could he do to make it up now? Stuck down here. All he could do was write.

* * * * *

On Thursday lunchtime they went to the fish restaurant yet again. Bodie realised that Teresa was definitely interested in him, and he knew that he was going to have to follow this up - it was too dangerous to do anything else. What bloody awful timing. Ray would be livid. He turned on the charm, and by the time they left the restaurant he had a date with her for the evening. He let Anson and Torrance announce this to the amateur photographers and sound recordists back at the flat.

In the evening he dressed as smartly as he could; he hadn’t planned on this when he’d packed. He left it to Lucas to point out that they’d know if he was successful if he spent the night away from the flat; of course Anson said that Bodie would rather pay for a hotel room than admit that he hadn’t scored, but the point was made.

It was a date like any other: Chinese meal, film, drink in a quiet pub, then back to her small flat near the station. He did not return to the CI5 flat till morning. If the other men had any doubts as to where he’d spent the night, they were dispelled the next evening at the restaurant. How did he do it? He wasn’t that good looking, was he? Women were strange, they agreed when he was out of ear-shot.

From Friday, the letters started arriving daily. Bodie didn’t mention Wednesday night, but he did thank Doyle for his letter, and sympathised with him for having a woman as his probationer. He thought women were wasting everyone’s time trying for the action jobs - maybe you needed a few to cope with kids and other women, but they should know their place. Stupid to encourage them to try to work like men. Still, enough failures and they’d find their level. He was just sorry for the blokes who had to work with them in the meantime. Doyle snorted at that. On second thoughts, it was a good thing Garrett and Bodie would never meet.

Monday’s letter said that Petrie had been and gone, taking all but Bodie, Murphy, Lucas and McCabe with him. Bodie sounded happier, except for missing Doyle. He said they were just hanging around to clear up some loose ends, and then they should be back to London, at least for a few days. Doyle was soothed, and no longer carrying his depression around with him like a weight.

Bodie _was_ happier, but by no means happy. He knew he’d have to tell Ray about Teresa sooner or later, and he thought once again that he’d made a mistake, and that he should have mentioned her in the first letter. At that time, though, he’d been desperate to write the sort of letter that might take that look from Ray’s face, and couldn’t bear the idea of giving him any bad news.

But now he had had time to imagine his lover’s reaction when he discovered that Bodie had lied to him, too. Ray was so honest himself, hated deception, hated lies, and Bodie dreaded letting him down. And Ray would be so upset when he discovered that Bodie had spent most of Sunday with Teresa, when he could have (would rather have) gone to London to see Ray for a few hours.

He would have to tell him. He couldn’t keep him away from the lads forever, and he couldn’t stand another scene like the last one. Oh, God, why did he keep on messing this up? He didn’t deserve Ray.

* * * * *

Bodie had a nightmare on Thursday night.

He was in the small room furthest from the sitting room where Lucas and McCabe were crouching by the window swapping dirty jokes. He was woken by hands shaking him and a heavy body pinning him down. It was dark in the room so he couldn’t see who it was, but it didn’t smell like Ray, and for several seconds he panicked and fought harder. Then he realised it was Murphy, and his panic changed, and he stopped fighting. He lay still, waiting for the other man to go, but he stayed, a heavy weight, for what seemed like many minutes. Had he been given the job of restraining 3.7 while Lucas and McCabe called Ross?

Bodie listened for other sounds in the flat. Nothing. He swallowed and breathed deeply, hoping to eliminate all evidence of tears or fear when he spoke. “I’m OK now, Murph. Sorry I woke you up.”

“I wasn’t asleep. I was reading, or I wouldn’t have heard you.”

Silence.

“Was it the same. As in Derby, I mean.”

“Yeah.” It was nearly casual.

“Would it help to talk?”

Bodie trembled for a second, then controlled. He’d been doing this most of his life; he was very good at it. He thought, _You couldn’t afford to hear it, airhead. Because if you knew, I’d smash your skull open with my bare hands, and eat your brains. No one else is ever going to know._

He said, “Nah. Sorry, I try not to make a habit of it.”

* * * * *

Murphy went back to the other bedroom via the bathroom and the kitchen. Lucas and McCabe grunted thanks for the coffee, and carried on with their limericks marathon. They didn’t seem to have heard anything. The wall to the large bedroom was a respectable brick wall; it was the wall between the two bedrooms that was only a partition.

He settled down with his book and his mug of tea, but he didn’t turn a page in ten minutes. He’d give a lot to know what was going on inside Bodie’s head.

His interest _was_ innocent, and was much as he’d explained to Doyle in the pub: self-preservation and sheer curiosity. There was also affection, which he hadn’t mentioned. Bodie had been good to him, helping him through the first three or four months, when it seemed that the experiment was going to be unsuccessful. He’d been better to Murphy than the other squad members had, and that had made Murphy like him.

Later he’d realised that Bodie was making an exception for him, and that made him curious, and he’d tried to become the man’s friend. That had proved impossible, though the rejection had been so bland and oblivious that Murphy hadn’t felt hurt, and that had made him more curious still. It was easier to get close to Stonehenge that it was to 3.7.

Bodie had given the impression of operating only on a small set of basic emotions, most of them negative. After that initial support, Murphy had received only benign indifference, and the benefit of the man’s undoubted competence in the arts of destruction. They’d worked together frequently, and found each other bearable company during the boredom, and reliable backup during the terror. But Murphy didn’t understand him at all. He was sure he couldn’t be as straight-forward as he seemed; did that smooth surface hide strong currents and glittering treasure? Who was he?

He’d almost given up on the question, having learnt nothing in 18 months, when Bodie returned from Africa with a policeman. That raised a few laughs: Bodie’s opinion of the British bobby was well known. But no one had bothered to comment (or not to Murphy, anyway) as Ray Doyle became established as “Bodie’s copper friend” and almost a member of the squad.

So Bodie was capable of friendship. It surprised him, though, to realise over the months that they were close friends, not just casual drinking buddies who met after work every other month. He wondered once how often they met, after he’d noticed how well they anticipated each other, seeming to sense when the other was finishing with a conversation, or was ready to leave for the next pub on the route. Maybe as often as every week? It was interesting, but didn’t really teach him anything useful about 3.7

In January he’d learnt more. He’d never seen a nightmare like it. He’d been at the window in the darkened room when he’d heard the terrified cries from the camp bed. His first thought had been that a member of the group they were watching had somehow got into the room, and was murdering Bodie. He’d spun round, gun in hand.

But there had been nothing. Except 3.7 clutching the pillow and sobbing. He’d stood frozen for five seconds, and eventually woken him up. As soon as Bodie was fully conscious he’d controlled his breathing and his face with a discipline that was astonishing, but before that ... Murphy had seen less fear on the faces of people he was about to kill.

He hadn’t known what to do. He hadn’t known what was wrong. The cries had been garbled and smothered; no clues. He’d got him a drink, for something to do, and then stammered something, he didn’t know what ... about Northern Ireland, probably. Bodie had been bland and oblivious again, and Murphy had known that he was not capable of getting through that, and had returned to the window, and to renewed speculations. The smooth surface _did_ hide strong currents, and it would be a brave or foolish person who ventured there.

The past few days in Dover had been interesting for a Bodie-watcher. He had been very subdued, almost reclusive, his mind definitely not on the job for all his enthusiasm for reports. The easy answer would be to blame the affair with Teresa, but Murphy was sure that was not it. He’d been quiet when he’d arrived, before he’d met Teresa, and he wasn’t making his usual effort to get up everyone’s nose by lecturing on his irresistible attraction for the opposite sex.

Of course, that could mean that he was seriously involved with her, but Murphy thought not; the man’s mind was elsewhere. Murphy was bloody sure that he was writing letters, daily letters, in the kitchen.

There was something going on for Bodie, something intense that was invisible to the rest of the world, and that Murphy saw only as a flash of silver through great depths; blink, or pay too much attention to the ripples and sunlight on the surface, and you miss it.

Who was it, down under the surface with him? Was it the same person he’d been writing to in January, in Derby? Someone in London. It must be. Someone very important, too important to subject to Lucas and Taylor, too important to allow her to become part of the sexual legend that was 3.7.

But Bodie was still working on that legend, wasn’t he? Not as hard as, say, a year ago, but still ... It didn’t add up.

* * * * *

Murphy was confused. He could feel this thoughts slipping over one another, refusing to stick. He ought to give up. He would never understand the man, and it probably wasn’t that important, anyway, and it was giving him a headache.

He closed his book, put the light out, and lay down. But his brain was still working.

Did it make any sense at all, Bodie hiding someone back in London, a great romantic secret? It wasn’t impossible, but ...

He left that puzzle, and picked up another. The nightmares.

What were they about? How frequent were they? Did anyone else in the squad know about them?

He must have bunked down with most members of the squad at one time or another, in all the obbos he’d been on. Had everyone heard him scream? Murphy cringed at the thought.

Did Ray Doyle know about them? Had he had them in Africa while they were travelling back together? Suddenly he had a very clear image of Doyle’s face, and of his voice as he refused to talk about Bodie: “He wouldn’t like it.” Doyle knew alright.

And then everything fitted into place. His thoughts lined themselves up in neat rows, and he saw the pattern, clear as a maze in a child’s puzzle book.

This had happened to him a few times when he used to play chess: mostly he was a mediocre player, thinking just a few moves ahead, relying on his opponents’ mistakes rather than strategy, but sometimes ... just sometimes ... he’d looked at the board and seen all of the rest of the game screened before his eyes in a fraction of a second, as if it had been injected into his brain. He hadn’t known when he was thirteen to call it a revelation, but it had frightened him then, and it frightened him now.

* * * * *

Tuesday’s letter was short, but promised that it would be the last letter. Was he already back, then? For a change it was good timing - Tuesday was the first day of Doyle’s four-day leave. Of course, it was raining heavily.

He spent the afternoon with the computer, starting with a few chapters of Ruth’s book, and then having another go at the werewolves. By half-past four they’d killed him three times, and the novelty was wearing off. He switched to “Frogger” - something he was good at. At five Bodie let himself in.

Doyle found he had no anger left, just relief and delight. “I wasn’t expecting to see you today.” Well, maybe a trace left: “Or do you have to rush off in half an hour?”

“I’ve got a couple of days off. I can stay the night ... if you’d like me to.”

“Of course.”

They settled on the sofa. It was as if Bodie had never been away.

“What’s that?” The TV was half-obscured by computer.

Doyle explained. “D’you fancy a game? Though I warn you, I am bloody good at “Frogger”.”

Bodie narrowed his eyes. “What a challenge.” Then he leaned back, obviously not about to move. “Later, though. How are things? How are you getting on with .. Ruth?”

* * * * *

They ate, and then played “Frogger”. Bodie started off slowly but improved depressingly quickly, and got his name in the second and third slots in the “Hall of Fame”. Doyle was ninth and made a great show of not being amused. He was genuinely put out (slightly), but he’d been very impressed by Bodie’s reflexes. He’d known that the man must be exceptional to be in the top ranks in CI5 but he hadn’t seen it demonstrated so clearly before. He showed him the adventure game, half-expecting him to charm the werewolves over and solve the whole thing in a few minutes, but he was glad to be disappointed.

They moved back to the sofa and lay in one another’s arms, mixing snippets of news with long, gentle kisses that were an expression of affection rather than a prelude to sex. It was exactly what Doyle needed.

He was thinking happily that they were exactly in tune with each other when Bodie said, “Ray, I had sex with a woman when I was in Dover.”

He looked at the serious, dark man in silence for several seconds. “Who?”

“Her name’s Teresa. She works in that restaurant I told you about.”

“The fish restaurant.”

Bodie nodded slowly. “I went there on Saturday with some of the lads. She showed she was interested, and since we were going to the restaurant nearly every day I knew it could be a “confirmed sighting” - as McCabe puts it, and they -“

Doyle interrupted, “So when did ... the deed take place?”

“Thursday.” A pause. “And Sunday.”

“I must have missed the bits in your letters where you told me about all this.”

Bodie looked at the floor. Yes, he’d fucked up again. “I didn’t want to make you angry.”

Doyle opened his mouth, breathed harshly twice, shut it again, and nearly a minute later said, “Did you bother to listen to a single word I said last time, Bodie?”

Bodie nodded. “I listen to everything you say.” He looked up, openly miserable, pathetically pleading for forgiveness. Doyle clenched his jaw till his teeth rattled in a fight to control the urge to hit him. Eventually he won.

He sighed. “You can be extremely stupid at times, Bodie.”

Bodie looked back at the floor. “Yes,” he said quietly, then, “I’m sorry, Ray.”

“I’m sure you are. You were sorry last time, but that doesn’t seem to have made any difference, does it?” But Doyle’s flare of anger was dying out, smothered by the other man’s defeated passivity; there were limits to his taste for revenge. He sighed again. “Just don’t do it again, OK? Tell me as soon as you can.” A pause. “Or I will be _really_ pissed off.”

Bodie nodded more vigorously and reached out tentatively. Doyle looked at him, then took the proffered hand.

* * * * *

They watched a video, at Bodie’s suggestion, then made their way slowly to bed.

“What would you like?” Bodie was propped on an elbow, his free hand resting on Doyle’s stomach.

Doyle covered the hand with his own. “Nothing. I’m ... tired.” He felt drained, beaten up inside by adrenalin. On another day it might have taken him differently, made him want to fuck all night. “I’m sorry.”

A shake of the head. “We all get tired. Can I just ... hold you?”

In reply, Doyle turned, fitted himself into Bodie’s arms. They didn’t fall asleep immediately, but talked, and laughed, hands drifting, ignoring Bodie’s partial erection until it got bored and went away.

Come the morning, Doyle was not tired at all, and Bodie gave him so much of what he liked that the idea of “sorting out” Wednesday night seemed totally pointless. It was ancient history.

* * * * *

The weather was dull, but not raining, and they spent much of the day out of the flat, starting with breakfast in a local caff, then taking a long walk on the Heath. Doyle wanted to drag Bodie into the undergrowth - he could just see him stretched out against the green. Bodie laughed at the idea, which was so clearly impossible that it didn’t warrant a lecture - Ray was full of these fantasies.

Much later, they were crammed into the corner of the settee, in romantic cliché mode, as Doyle now privately termed it. “What’ll we do tomorrow?”

Bodie took a deep breath. “I’m going to Dover.”

“God, that was a short break. I thought you’d be around for a few more days.” A closer look at Bodie. “What’s wrong? You’re up to something.”

He couldn’t lie to Ray. Just couldn’t. “It’s Teresa’s day off.”

“So what?” The words were bitten off, despatched separately.

“So I’m going down.”

Doyle’s eyes were wide and quite cold. “You do not need to see her if you’re not stuck down there any more. You’ve got IS off your back. I want you to spend the day with me.”

Bodie answered in the same tone. “I am not finished in Dover, and when I have to go back with half of CI5, I don’t want a plate of cod and chips dumped in my lap. I want to spend tomorrow with you too, but at the moment this is more important.”

Doyle’s nostrils flared, but Bodie held firm.

“It is necessary,” he said slowly. “I will do what is necessary.”

“I’m sure. Funny how you’re the one who decides what’s necessary, though.”

“You agreed. We can’t afford to be found out. We have to do this. Have I complained when you’ve spent your leave with Alison?”

Doyle did not respond to that. He felt cornered. _Why should you complain? You just don’t care. You’ve never even asked about her after the first time. I’d put you first every time. You owe me, because you bullied me into this._ But it all seemed petty, and far too late to bring up now. Bodie was set on a course, and would recognise no obstacles, or arguments. But when did he ever? _You always win. I’ve never won an argument with you. You may say you’re sorry, and you wish things were different, but we always end up doing what you want._

“Better go home and get a good night’s sleep, hadn’t you? Don’t want to disappoint her. Have a nice day, and send me a postcard, why don’t you?”

Bodie got up and turned away to shrug into his jacket, so Doyle did not see the passage of the thunderstorm, because when Bodie faced him again he looked quite calm. “I’ll be back on Friday. I’ll come around as soon as I get back.”

Doyle shrugged, and crossed the room to turn on the TV. He didn’t watch Bodie leave.

* * * * *

It took him hours to get to sleep after Bodie had left. They’d never had an argument quite like that. He’d never ordered Bodie away before. And Bodie had just gone. He wasn’t supposed to do that.

What was Bodie playing at? Why was he _really_ going to Dover, making such a fuss of Teresa? It couldn’t be because he cared anything for her. She was a fool if she let herself think anything like that.

He found himself remembering times Bodie had made a fuss of _him_. Had he been as much of a fool? Had Bodie been after something else each time? The evening they’d gone to the Savoy - _He just wanted to celebrate getting back to work. Anyone would have done for company._ Buying that smart grey suit - _He was embarrassed to be seen in public with me in the old one, that’s all. An insult, plain and simple._ The extravagant Christmas present - _He fancies me in brown leather. That makes it a present for himself, nothing to do with me._

 _Stop_ , he told his brain, _please stop_. All this couldn’t be true. He couldn’t have been so wrong about Bodie for so long. Bodie had proved his love, over and over again. Hadn’t he?

His brain surged on, ignoring him, reaching the night of the angel glasses, covering it with corrosive, clinging doubt.

Bodie had thought for over a year that their first encounter had been rape. Real, full-blown rape, too dangerous even to mention again. Just six weeks before Doyle had seen Bodie’s distress at the memory as proof of the intensity of his feelings, had wanted only to comfort him. Now that seemed like something out of a soft-focus Hollywood film.

For a year, Bodie had thought of himself as a rapist. _What does that make me, then, in his eyes?_ Someone who would willingly - no, eagerly - return to the bed of the man who had raped him, sighing of love. _Maybe ... Maybe he even still thinks of me as his slave._

 _No. No, please, no._ He sat up, turned the light on, and forced himself to concentrate on a detective novel. Finally he fell asleep, but as soon as he woke, his brain returned to the same topic with renewed energy. He set it other tasks: remembering the names of each probationer he’d trained, of his teachers at school, going through each moment of his sieges with the Firearms Squad, describing the plot of “The Mayor of Casterbridge” to himself. This worked while he was out of the flat on a punishing jog, and on the way back he bought some more detective novels. He had to work hard, though, to stop himself looking up, staring out of the window, and thinking.

* * * * *

When night came, he was bone tired, but knew he wouldn’t sleep. He had another book left, but his heart sank at the mere sight of a page of print. There must be some other way of turning his brain off.

Sleeping pills. In his mind’s eye he could see the little blue rectangles in their white envelope. _Don’t tell me they got lost in the move._ He hadn’t had to use them for years, since the shift system had become second nature. The wardrobes contained five boxes of varying sizes to which all junk made its way in the end. There were layers in them that dated back to well before Ann. He up-ended them on his bed, and found the envelope in the third.

The thoughts were back on Friday, joined by a feeling of tension and doom. Bodie should be back today. He wasn’t ready, hadn’t worked out what he felt, let along what he should do. Maybe he should just get out of town for the day, to avoid him, and to show also that he wouldn’t be taken for granted, that he had better things to do than sit around waiting for Bodie to come back. No. That would be what a coward would do, not him, not Ray Doyle.

Of course. He could cope with this, whatever it was. Just needed to clear his mind and look at things properly, as if it was happening to someone else - a friend, or a civilian even.

It was difficult, though. Their affair was so enclosed, so shut away, that when he tried to stand back ... it was like falling off the edge of the world. There was nowhere to watch from.

And no one else was watching, giving him _their_ views. That could be useful. Hell, it was what he did for a living - he _knew_ it was useful. Not that the views were always welcome. He snorted, remembering when Mike had given his opinion of Ann, how he’d stopped speaking to him for three weeks over that.

What _would_ his friends make of Bodie, even if they didn’t know the full tale - the purchase from ben Yussef, the nightmares? These days ... he barely had friends, had made himself a recluse for Bodie’s sake.

Or was it truer to say that he was in a strange kind of harem? A harem without walls and with only one inmate, but with the traditional atmosphere of sexual purpose and waiting? He tried out that thought as an experiment, and was shocked at how well the theory fit the facts.

Bodie felt perfectly free to made sexual demands of him, seemed to expect him always to be ready. He closed his eyes tight at the memory of that Wednesday evening in the kitchen. With an entire night-shift to pick over that, he’d barely touched the surface, had forgiven him almost immediately. Incredible. Those few minutes seemed hideous now, even worse than their first meeting. It had been an act of possession, and he had spread his legs and been hot for it.

Was that really who he was? Maybe. He could face the idea. But if so then there must be better masters in London than Bodie. More appreciative. More flexible. Who would forbid him to have sex with women, and who might - sometimes - let him fuck them.

He dropped his head, and caught a fold of skin from his wrist in his teeth; he breathed hard, keeping the pressure from the cutting surfaces just short of pain. He stayed like that for what seemed a long time, trying - desperately - to find some warmth inside himself for Bodie, to convince himself that only six weeks ago he’d been grinning like a fool at the idea of getting home and having the man make love to him. He knew it had happened but ...

The Lalique box was in the kitchen, at the top of a cupboard. He opened it with care, though his hands were shaking. The glasses at least had not changed. They were just as beautiful, the angels as distant and indifferent, utter strangers to the emotions which held him. Nothing grubbily human could attach itself to these - they came from somewhere else, somewhere pure.

That soaring fragile beauty. It was like the feeling of being in love, something inside you lifting you up, transforming you. A familiar feeling from the past year. And Bodie _did_ feel it too. _That was why he bought the glasses. Why they reminded him of me. It’s OK. We’ll be OK._

* * * * *

It was raining again, cold rain in a driving wind that looked as if it was whipping the commuters toward the station. He turned the heating up, put a classical record on, and settled in front of the computer with coffee and Jaffa Cakes - they’d stocked up on Wednesday.

He opened Ruth’s book, determined not to give up so quickly this time. It turned out to be perfect therapy, completely abstract, with no relation to his personal worries, but practical, keeping him busy and infuriated with its seemingly trivial exercises that for various reasons would never work first time. He did not notice the record finishing or the hours passing.

“What do you mean, ‘NTWO is not defined’, you stupid bloody machine? What do you think that line there is supposed to be doing?” He was starting to wonder if laryngitis was recorded as an occupational injury for programmers; he couldn’t remember when he’d last shouted so long and hard.

“Maybe you’re too clever for it.” Bodie was just inside the door.

“I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I’m not surprised, the amount of noise you’re making. I thought you were fighting off burglars. No, don’t turn round. Carry on. How about some more coffee?”

* * * * *

Bodie poured the fresh coffee, then knelt behind Ray and put his arms around the lean waist. He swallowed hard in relief as Ray leant back against him.

“What are you doing?”

“Just working through this book Ruth lent me.”

“Why?”

A shrug that Bodie felt rather than saw. “To find out what it’s about. I feel a prat not knowing a thing about computers, and ... it’s interesting.”

“Mmm.” A pause. “What does this one do?”

“Nothing at the moment. It’s supposed to find prime numbers.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll give up on it for now, I think. Come back when my voice has had a chance to recover.” He leaned back further, stretching his legs out, and picked up his coffee. Bodie let his go cold as he kept both arms tight around the slender body and felt the soft hair against his cheek. He wanted to stay here forever, Ray a trusting weight against him, his own head bowed, eyes closed, no words, no arguments. But of course it couldn’t be like that. When would Ray cut him up, cut him out? Ray could stay angry for days, and he was cold, quick and sarcastic, and Bodie knew no way of dealing with him.

The last day and a half had been miserable for him. He’d been seeing, over and over again, Ray sad, exasperated, furious, defeated. He wasn’t making him happy - that was obvious. _Alison_ was, he was sure, and as for “Ruth” ... What was happening with her?

Ray was a lovely, intelligent man. Why should he stay with a musclebound glorified-bouncer who didn’t even know what a prime number was, and who couldn’t give him what he wanted in bed? Couldn’t give _anyone_ that, apparently. He’d managed with Teresa on the second attempt, and she’d been forgiving, but he’d have to do better next time - if there was a next time - and that would be so difficult if things got any worse with Ray.

* * * * *

Doyle finished his coffee in silence. He felt warm now. He hadn’t expected this, the instant relaxation the moment those strong arms closed around him. Usually he was looking forward to seeing him, felt happy just knowing they were about to meet. This time it was almost against his will. Maybe he’d been mistaken about who was taking whom for granted.

It was only when Bodie was away from him that he managed to make himself so miserable, find everything so complicated. When they were together everything was simple: clean anger, pure lust, sheer contentment.

He reached back to stroke Bodie’s knee, probing the joint, running a hard finger along the ridges of the bones. Everything about Bodie’s body was wonderful to him. Who wanted to be an angel, anyway? He pitied them their immortality. It was miraculous, it was magnificent, to have just this short life, bound to this flesh of iron and water and salt, yet still to have met Bodie, and to find in him ample explanation for the entire world.

“I love you, Bodie. I hate it when you’re away. Whatever you’re doing.” Quietly, voice almost devoid of emotion.

“You know I never want to go.”

“I know.”

They went to bed. Bodie was so careful, so tender, he seemed almost shy. Was this a sultan arrogant in his harem? Doyle knew that of all his fantasies, that was the most ludicrous.

* * * * *

On Saturday morning, Doyle was relaxed and talkative, while Garrett was subdued. It wasn’t in his nature to leave her alone, though.

“How was your leave?”

A pause. “So-so. Went to Bristol to visit some friends from school. Came back last night. Seems like a different world.”

“You said you were from Edinburgh, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. They’re friends from Edinburgh.”

“You know, you don’t sound Scottish.”

“I’m not really. Or at least my parents aren’t. But a lot of middle-class kids in Edinburgh sound English, anyway. We’re groomed to fit in down south. Sent to private schools where they teach ‘A’ Levels not Highers, so that we can go to English universities.”

“Like Bristol.”

“Yeah. They’ve graduated now, but they’re sticking around. ‘Course, they were out at work during the day so I just saw them in the evening. I did some sightseeing, went to Bath for the day, but the weather was so lousy I spent most of the time in the house reading. It was odd, waiting for them to get back. I felt like a traditional Shake-n-Vac house-wife ... ‘living for the sound of the key in the door’. Not my style at all.”

“D’you visit them often?”

She shook her head. “I haven’t seen them since last summer, long before I joined the force.” A heavy sigh. “God, that was a pain. They kept on trying to psychoanalyse me - this from a Geographer and an Art Historian - to find out what traumatic event in my life had led me to this desperate measure. It was let’s-patronise-Ruth-time.” The dormant temper was wide awake. “Actually, it was a lousy leave. I don’t think I’ll go back. Knee-jerk -“ She broke off, the muscles in her jaw twitching.

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. “How about you? Your leave, I mean?”

An impossible question. He told her he was up to Chapter Seven in her book.

“That’s what? Arrays? String operations?”

“Arrays. You know, I had real problems with ...”

She diagnosed the bug he’d already hunted down himself, and then they got called to the market, and she never asked what else he’d been doing with the four days if he’d only got through five chapters.

Shortly after lunch, they answered a call from a woman who was worried about her neighbour. She didn’t use the word suicide, but that was Doyle’s first thought. Before they left he grabbed the tin of Vicks ointment and a handful of tissues from the cupboard.

“What’s that for?”

“Corpses stink. If your nose is bunged full of Vicks you won’t smell anything else.”

The man had been dead a day or so, Doyle reckoned. Overdose, by the immediate evidence. They waited for the forensics team and the ambulance. Doyle was searching for a note when he saw a picture on the shelves in the sitting room that was very familiar. He called Garrett over.

“Jesus. Hendon. He’s a cop. Was a cop.” She looked at the man on the bed, then back at the photograph. “Did you know him?”

Doyle shook his head.

* * * * *

On Sunday the CI5 operation finally broke, after Bodie had driven down to Dover during the night. Cowley had been planning on a neat, discreet swoop, but it didn’t work out like that. Little would get into the papers though - excepting something like a gun-battle in Trafalgar Square, he had the power to keep most of his work out of the public eye. Bodie and Murphy had a very hairy few hours down at the docks. They finished in the early afternoon, leaving five bodies, and a small quantity of Murphy’s blood.

Bodie drove them back to town. Their blood was still well mixed with adrenalin, and they needed to raise hell of some kind. But the possibilities are limited on a Sunday evening in London. In the end, all they came up with was getting drunk at Bodie’s place. They wasted no time.

After an hour or so the alcohol had diluted the adrenalin so that Murphy was feeling more comfortable. Comfortable? Hell, he felt like a ruler of the universe. He was omni-competent, indestructible, damn-near all-knowing. He giggled to himself at that last thought, and Bodie thought it was in response to the brilliant elephant-joke he’d just told, laughed even harder, and started on his lightbulb-changing-jokes.

Half-an-hour later Bodie went out to get them a curry, leaving Murphy sprawled in the armchair, not quite as incapable as he’d made out - Bodie owed him.

Maybe he could make a real friend of Bodie. He’d never seen him this relaxed before. Ray must be good for him, though that was obvious really, when you knew, and knew what to look out for.

He’d thought a lot about the couple in the last week. At first he’d been stunned by the idea - Bodie, gay, and having a passionate affair with a policeman! He’d wake up in the morning, feeling fine and tuned-in, then he’d remember, and it was as if the vertical hold had gone on his life. That had lasted until Wednesday, his first full day back in town, when he’d started some serious thinking.

He was still boggling a bit, but mostly he was happy for them, and sympathetic. It must be very difficult for them. It couldn’t be easy for any gay couple, but with their jobs ... Cowley would do his nut. Not that Murphy was going to tell him, of course.

It must be desperately lonely for them. As he’d told Doyle, Bodie had always seemed an isolated man; had he become more so, since he’d become involved with Ray? Murphy thought he had.

At that moment, warm, inebriated and very pleased with himself as he sat in Bodie’s comfortable sitting room, he made up his mind to let Bodie know that he’d figured it out. He’d thought about this a lot, changing his mind daily. Now he knew that it could help them if there was someone they could talk to, someone who approved. Everyone needed to confide, especially when they were happy. He just had to figure out the best way of going about it. When Bodie staggered in with the carrier bags of curry and some beer, Murphy had devised his plan of action.

They dished the curry onto plates, Bodie unearthed some chutney and pickle, and they ate at the dining table by the window. After dumping their plates in the sink, they moved back to the seats around the TV. Murphy pointed to the picture over the fire-place. “I hadn’t really noticed that last time I was here. Kandinsky, isn’t it? Looks good. Where’d you get it?”

Bodie shrugged. “It was a present.”

“From Ray?”

He nodded, made slightly uneasy by the certainty in the other man’s voice.

“He’s got good taste. Managed to get rid of those dancing girls, too.” Murphy smiled amiably, but Bodie wasn’t looking at him; he had turned away and was flicking through his stacks of records. Murphy moved to stand beside him, looking over his shoulder. “Have you got any Tom Robinson?”

“Who?”

Completely blank. Ah, well. “Never mind.”

Bodie put some Fleetwood Mac on, and they sat down and started hitting the scotch again. After a couple of tracks Murphy started in again.

“D’you hear about Williams and Lake?”

“What about them?”

“Well, you remember they both resigned after Williams had that near miss with the bomb.”

“I do have some brain cells still functioning, Murph.”

“Eh?”

“Yes, I remember. What about them?”

“Well, I heard the other day that they were living together in Portsmouth. Lake is running a car-hire firm and Williams is working in a fitness centre, or something like that.” He had heard no such thing. No one seemed to know what had become of the two.

“So what?”

“Living together, Bodie. As in double-bed and mortgage and so on.”

Bodie looked at him, no longer quite so relaxed. To Murphy he just seemed slightly surprised, and trying to hide it - certainly not edgy. He said nothing.

“I wonder if they were together when they were on the squad. You knew them better than I did. What do you reckon?”

“They wouldn’t be so stupid.” Flat, matter-of-fact. “A job with positive vetting and tough Internal Security? They wouldn’t last five minutes.”

“Maybe it didn’t work like that. Maybe they ... fell for each other while they were teamed. Must have been hell for them, keeping it a secret like that. Bet they even carried on going out with women - ‘cos of IS. Not surprised they packed it in. Just wonder they managed to stick it at all.”

He was looking straight into Bodie’s eyes. The man was showing no signs of tension - there were no clenched muscles - but he was quite impassive, and it was obvious that he was not going to confide in Murphy yet. Maybe when he’d got used to the idea.

All Bodie said was, “Does Cowley know?”

“About Williams and Lake? I’m sure he doesn’t. I just found out because I bumped into a friend of Lake’s who was at their leaving do. She told me. It was a surprise to her too. I don’t think anyone could have known.”

“Is it any wonder? They’d be stupid to start ... fucking each other. They’d be insane to talk about it.”

“Not everyone has Internal Security’s view of gays. I think IS is bloody stupid. They’re encouraging trouble by making people keep it a secret. I’d have felt honoured if either of them had confided in me and I certainly wouldn’t have thought any less of them and I certainly wouldn’t have told the Cow or IS or anyone else. I’d just have been glad that they were happy together. It’s hard enough to find the right person under any circumstances, and in this job it’s damn near impossible.”

Murphy had another inch of scotch as he got his breath back. Bodie was now looking bored.

“Well, good for you,” he said dismissively. Murphy realised that the subject was closed.

Bodie got up to turn the record over, and said, “I’ll call a taxi for you. You won’t make it by tube, the state you’re in. You’ll forget which stop you want, or get mugged by a little old lady.”

Murphy nodded. His neck didn’t want him to sleep on Bodie’s sofa, though he had the last time they’d got drunk together, after the climb up that stack. Now that had been a very close thing. Had been close today, too. If they hadn’t covered each other so well ...

Bodie made him a coffee, though nothing was going to dissuade the hangover. The taxi arrived just after he’d finished the coffee, and he let himself out. He was pretty pleased with the evening, really. Promising. At least he’d let Bodie know where he stood.

* * * * *

The instant the door closed, Bodie sank down on the arm of the chair Murphy had been in. The tumbler fell onto the cushion, and the stain spread on the cream material. He did not notice.

Murphy knew. He knew. He’d been thinking about them, speculating about them, probably imagining them in bed, wondering what they did to one another.

Bodie gripped the back of the chair. He was horribly conscious of his body, of the weight and texture of his clothes against his skin, of the press of his thighs against his cock, of the fact that he needed to take a crap. He felt dirty, greasy, animal.

He looked down at his body and hated the bulk of it, the way his trousers stretched over the muscles of his legs, the sweaty clumsiness of his feet inside the big, stiff shoes. And it was so pale and hairless - wormlike, obscenely naked. He pushed a hand over his chest to confirm the unnatural smoothness, and in doing so brushed a nipple; the concentrated sensation felt acid, a tasteless and cruel joke.

The adrenalin revived in him and he felt abruptly sick. He made his way carefully to the bathroom, and took several minutes to empty his stomach and then convince himself that it was safe to move from the bowl.

He rinsed his mouth, averting his eyes from the mirror, then stood in the door of the bathroom, not knowing what to do next. He didn’t want to have to face this.

Damn Murphy. He’d have to die, of course. Bodie had known that from the moment of the crack about the dancing girls. No one must know anything about William Bodie, even think about William Bodie.

Except Ray.

He had handed himself over to Ray because Ray found a value in him that no one else had, including himself. In his dreams he knelt before his lover, eyes closed, and knew that his body was turning to crystal, utterly transparent, and perfect at last.

* * * * *

In the end he sat down in front of the fire, and turned all of the bars of the fire on, though it was a mild night. He was calm again now; the thought of Murphy’s death was soothing, and gave him something to concentrate on. How soon could he arrange it? He couldn’t be too obvious. He couldn’t shoot him himself, for instance, because they could match the bullets with his weapon. No, he’d just wait for a day like today, when they were working as a pair, just the two of them, and he’d be ... just too late. Should be two, three weeks at most.

He smiled. He could hold him off for that long. It would help, too, when Murph carried on with his questions, to know that there were a few things about William Bodie that he would never guess at, being essentially a civilised man.

It was not that he was worried about Murphy telling Cowley or the other lads about him and Ray. He’d believed the man’s attempts at reassurance. Murphy was going to die not because he had made 3.7 fear for his job and his reputation, but because he had woken a bone-deep terror that he could not have suspected.

William Bodie had secrets, many secrets. William Bodie was defined by his secrets; they held him together, encased his soul, kept him safe. He felt that he’d known this all his life, it was automatic, and all secrets were the same to him. They were all locked in the same box, placed at the top of the same unscalable tower, guarded by the same ravenous, pitiless dragons, and the kingdom would fall if any one was exposed to daylight. Murphy was the first to get this close, but the defences were there, waiting for him. It was automatic, not something Bodie needed to think about.

Murphy did not stand a chance.

And then his death would become another secret. There were some things that even Ray could never know. Ray had seen more of William Bodie than anyone had for nearly twenty years. The rest of the world knew Bodie, which was the name he gave to the armour he’d started to build for himself in his last year at school. He’d been surprised, on meeting Ray, at how much of William was still alive in there; any atrophy had been slight.

He did not regret the awakening. The nightmares ... He’d survived the reality, and the dreams would not destroy him. They disturbed and deprived Ray, though, and for that he hated them.

Would it help, he wondered, if he told Ray a story to explain the nightmares? Not the truth, of course. That was the oldest secret of all, and its whole was known only by him and by God, and God would have died for that knowledge if Bodie had known where to find him.

Even Bodie’s father had not known of his son’s prayers after the separation, of the offer he’d made that he would do anything his father wanted if God would just bring his parents together again. He didn’t ask for anything unreasonable, didn’t ask for his mother to love him. But he wanted to live in a house where he mattered, where he was a person, not just something to be fed, or ordered to bed, or kept quiet. God had ignored him, and he’d thought he was less than a fallen sparrow, and then, when his step-brother was born and he discovered that his mother _could_ love after all, then he’d realised that God despised him.

It was all part of the oldest secret and Ray would despise him too if he found out. Anyone would.

But Ray deserved some explanation, should have had one from the beginning. But he hadn’t wanted Ray’s pity, and Ray had just ... accepted. Now ... everything was going wrong, and he knew he’d keep Ray on any terms, even pity. Fortunately his life was plump with the stuff of nightmares, and his only problem was choosing the best story, one that would fit the facts as Ray knew them. These stories weren’t secrets - not proper secrets, the ones involving William - and they could be told.

* * * * *

When Doyle got into the station on Monday morning, he discovered that there had been some kind of action in Dover the previous day, though no one seemed clear on what had happened. There had been shooting - the uniform branch had been brought in to clear up the bodies - and people seemed to think it was CI5 and Special Branch and the Drugs Squad. Mostly CI5 though, which meant they wouldn’t find anything about it in the papers in the morning.

Doyle felt a knot of tension form in his gut, though he tried to ignore it. He hadn’t seen Bodie since Saturday morning. Anything could have happened. He thought about ‘phoning him, but he had hardly ever found him in, and he didn’t want the extra worry that silence would bring. He’d be OK. “Born to be hanged.” He’d said it himself.

It was a beautifully quiet night, and Doyle and Garrett patrolled almost undisturbed all night. She was interested in the rumours about the events of the day.

“Do we ever get involved in things like that?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. We mop up the blood and tell the witnesses not to worry, it’s just a film. That the sort of involvement you mean? You’d have to move to one of the specialist branches ... or CI5, if you want to know what’s actually going on.”

“Have you ever been tempted? It must be exciting to be in the thick of things.”

Was he going to have this conversation with every single one of his acquaintances? After a pause he started to tell her about his time with the Firearms Squad, now finished after the formation of the full-time team.

“I was never really happy with it. Yes, it _is_ exciting, but ... I think it could become addictive, and it would make you forget that for most people life does not consist of crouching behind a car in a street in Bayswater, waiting to kill someone.” He laughed raggedly. “And I happen to think that that’s quite an important thing to remember.”

She nodded, then pointed out, “But for most people life doesn’t consist of pub fights and stabbings and controlling football crowds. You’re still getting a ... skewed view of life.”

He hadn’t thought of that before. “That’s true.” He grinned. “The girl expects consistency. How unreasonable can you get?”

She laughed, and they completed the circuit of their territory in silence. When they had parked she started again. “But you’ve had some involvement with CI5, haven’t you?”

The knot of tension turned into a hedgehog at the thought of just how involved he was with CI5, and he bit down a hysterical giggle. But he was calm enough when he replied in a tone of humorous exasperation, “Who have you been talking to?”

“Medland. Course I don’t believe a single word he says. But I wondered.”

“What did he say?”

“Um.” She cleared her throat. “That you’d been kidnapped by a sheik who was going to ... uh ... turn you into one of his eunuchs to guard his harem. But you were rescued by a CI5 agent dressed up in a gorilla suit. I told him these things don’t happen but ...” Her last sentence was drowned out in Doyle’s laughter.

When he stopped chuckling, he admitted, “Well, he’s pretty close,” and he told her the less glamorous version.

“Christ! I really didn’t think that sort of thing happened.”

He shrugged.

She frowned, puzzled over a gap in the narrative that had sounded like “In one bound he was free”. “How did he get you away from that guy? Was there a fight, or did he cut his way into the tent at night, or something?”

Doyle stared out into the dark street. This had never come out in the debriefing, and no one else had been this curious. He didn’t want to admit even part of the truth, but after this length of silence she wasn’t going to accept a simple explanation.

Finally he said, striving for a light tone. “He bought me. For eighty gold pieces. Couldn’t claim it back on expenses either, he said.”

“Wow!”

“You see how lucky you are in your Tutor?” he asked drily. “Why bother spending money on the cinema when you can sit in a patrol car and listen to the story of my life?”

“Yeah. So when do I get to hear about the time you climbed Everest in full evening-dress and carrying a grand piano?”

“I think I’ll save that for a night shift. A boring one.”

* * * * *

Bodie was lying on top of the bed when Doyle got home. He looked awful.

Doyle sat on the bed next to him. “Are you all right?” Frowning concern.

A painful smile. “Just hungover. Don’t ... bounce the bed so much, please.”

“I’ll leave you alone. What will you feel like eating when you start getting over it?”

Bodie closed his eyes and swallowed. “Bacon sarnie. Orange juice. But not yet. Thanks.”

* * * * *

Several hours later, over the second round of sandwiches, Doyle said, “I don’t suppose you can tell me anything about what happened yesterday.”

“Ray. It’s not because it’s some sort of CI5 secret club, and you don’t know the handshake and the song. You’re better off _not knowing_ , believe me. Most of the time I wish _I_ didn’t know.”

Doyle gave a lopsided smile. “You’ll be finishing with Teresa, then, now that this thing is over.”

“Yeah. It’s possible I might have to go back to Dover for a day to tie up loose ends, but ... I won’t need to see her. I’ll take sandwiches.”

Doyle started laughing and didn’t stop for nearly a minute. Bodie never quite understood what the joke was.

* * * * *

Bodie didn’t have to go back to Dover again, but he was called out of town on Tuesday, standing in on a stake-out for Torvald who’d been winged on Sunday. Doyle felt himself to be resigned to this by now - he wouldn’t fret, he’d just make other plans. He called Alison - the earliest she could make was Friday, his weekly leave, and she suggested going clubbing again. It wasn’t ideal, since he was hoping Bodie would be back by then, but he hadn’t seen her for some time. He also invited Ruth over for Thursday - she accepted immediately.

“Are you missing your computer?” he asked when he issued the invitation. “D’you want her back?”

“Nah. I’ve hardly noticed she’s gone. I haven’t been in much. Anything to get out of the section house, really.”

“You’re really not settling in there?”

She shrugged. “I don’t seem to have much in common with anyone there. There’s a couple of other women - they’re OK, but they don’t spend much time in either, off with boyfriends or visiting family, I think. And there’s a few other graduates, but they’re knocking themselves out to fit in by showing how street smart - or pub smart - they are. Which I find very boring. And the few guys who _do_ seem OK are still bloody young, and think that any conversation with me is laden with sexual opportunities. Which I also find very boring. So rather than pile along with the group, and listen to them talking about football, pub fights, car accidents ... and wogs ... all night, well, I’ve been keeping myself busy outside.

“So. I suppose you _could_ say that I’m not settling in.”

“You must have got more than a taste of this at Hendon, though. After all, this _is_ the force. And it won’t suddenly change when you get to Staff College. They’ll just be older, and more of them will be Masons, and they’ll still talk about football, pub fights and wogs.”

“You’re really cheering me up, Ray.”

That outburst was unusual, though. Most of the time she seemed to be enjoying herself, and if she _was_ fed up with the section house, well, she _was_ older than the rest, and at least she’d found ways of getting out and keeping herself cheerful. Maybe she’d make more effort to fit in when the tutoring was over, and she started working with the rest of the relief.

She brought some more games with her on Thursday - an adventure game set on a desert island, and a version of patience. They tried the adventure game, got completely stuck, and fell back on the old standard of “Frog-ger”. Ruth won the first round, with a very good score.

“Who’s Bodie?”

Doyle looked up, startled.

She pointed to the screen, where the Hall of Fame was displayed. “Here. Bodie the Frogger champion.” She was waiting.

“He’s a friend. He came around the other night when I was mucking around. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Course not. She’s a party animal. She loves meeting new people.”

Doyle wondered sometimes if Ruth didn’t identify with her computer too much; at least she hadn’t given it a name.

* * * * *

At ten minutes past ten, there was a sound at the door and Bodie let himself in.

Doyle saw a fleeting look of horror, skilfully banished.

Ruth seemed slightly surprised, but stood up, waiting to be introduced. Doyle obliged.

“Ah,” she smiled, “Bodie the demon Frogger player.”

He nodded, but without the usual insufferable smugness he showed when acknowledging his perfection. Doyle had never seen him so subdued - except during one of their rows, of course.

Doyle wasn’t sure what to do. After a minute’s thought he invited him to stay, ushering him into the kitchen with the promise of some left-overs. In the kitchen an urgent, whispered exchange took place.

“What are you doing here?”

“What do you think? I just got back in town. I suppose you’re going to tell me you forgot all about the signal.”

“What signal?”

Bodie sighed, and said, slowly and with insulting emphasis, “The book in the car.”

“Oh. Yes. Sorry.” He’d associated the book with Alison; it simply hadn’t occurred to him to use it when Ruth was around. “How do we explain that you’ve got a key?”

Bodie thought for a few seconds then said, “I stayed here on your couch for a while a few months ago when my house was being re-decorated. I’ve still got the key because I look after your place when you’re away. You’d forgotten I said I might drop in tonight.”

“OK. Great.”

Doyle went back to the sitting room while Bodie got himself some cheese on toast. He opened another bottle of wine, and when Bodie came back the three of them sat and talked. Garrett was pleasant and gently curious; Doyle was a mystery to her - he never talked about his personal life - and she was interested to meet one of his friends.

But Bodie obviously didn’t know how to take her. He’d never worked with a woman, and his idea of trying to get to know a woman consisted of trying to talk her into bed. After a very few minutes, Doyle was wishing profoundly that he’d thought to warn Bodie in the kitchen not to try that approach with Ruth. As she’s said the other day, she found it very boring, and he could not think of any woman less likely to be attracted or even amused by Bodie’s particular brand of dark, brooding, smirky machismo. And Ruth was not, at heart, a tolerant person.

Her open smile soon turned to puzzlement, and then to irritation. _I’m going to have a fight on my hands_ , thought Doyle, and he watched for an opening to change the subject.

It wasn’t needed.

Bodie was not stupid or insensitive - Well, Bodie was, but William wasn’t, especially not where Ray was concerned - and he eventually realised that this was not working and that the two police-officers were angry and embarrassed, and that he ought to shut up and let Ray show him how it was done. He’d screwed up again.

When Bodie fell silent, Doyle asked Ruth what films she’d seen recently, since she’d said that she was going to the cinema a lot. She gave quick reviews of some five films, and soon relaxed. One was a film he and Bodie had seen some time ago, and Bodie re-entered the talk with a few comments on that. Then he asked some sensible questions about life for a new recruit in the force, and they all reached an unspoken agreement to forget the bad start to the conversation.

* * * * *

At eleven Ruth said she ought to be thinking about getting back to the section house, but Bodie offered her a lift so she challenged him to a game of “Frogger”. He thrashed Ruth as thoroughly as he had Doyle, much to Doyle’s satisfaction.

“You must have spend half your life in arcades,” she said, looking at him with a hint of wonder.

Bodie, for once, did not want to boast. He’d tried his James Bond act on her, and it had been a disaster; there was no point in trying to impress her. He shrugged, and was going to ask about her other games when Doyle said, “Nope. He’s a natural. The first time he played was over here the other week.”

Doyle was feeling pleased with Bodie now, proud of him. Bodie smiled shyly, making Doyle want to kiss him, and then he asked about the other games.

They turned their combined brain-power to the problem of the werewolves. The area around the keyboard was crowded, and glasses were nearly knocked over twice. It was Bodie who found the way around the beasts: all they had to do was stay around the corner from them, and type “WAIT” several times so that (in the game) a few days went past and it was no longer full moon; then the werewolves turned back into accountants and shoemakers, and were less inclined to disembowel passers-by.

They played until past one in the morning, stopping only when Bodie started yawning. While Ruth was in the bathroom, Bodie said, “Shall I come back afterwards?”

“Of course,” and Doyle pulled him down for a very quick kiss.

* * * * *

When Bodie returned they went straight to bed. They lay with their arms around each other, letting the proximity and the nakedness achieve a slow arousal, which they could acknowledge, or not, as they chose.

“I’m sorry,” Bodie said suddenly.

“What for?”

“For being such a dickhead with Ruth. You were embarrassed.”

“Oh.” Doyle didn’t deny that he’d been embarrassed. “Well, you didn’t do any worse than most of the blokes at the station. And you were fine after the first few minutes. And I’m sorry I forgot about the signal. It could have been disastrous.”

Bodie shook his head. “I’m glad I’ve met her. She’s not as much of a liability as I’d expected.”

“I must tell her that. She’ll be over the moon.”

Bodie checked that Doyle wasn’t serious. Then, “Is Alison anything like her?”

Doyle considered this. “Well, they’re both thoroughly middle-class and self-possessed. Educated, you know. But Alison’s taller and less athletic-looking, though I think she’s actually more sporty. And she’s got long hair and wears make-up. She’s more ‘elegant’, really. ‘Girly’, Ruth would say. Actually they’re very different, now I come to think of it.” A thoughtful pause, then he continued, “Alison’s quite a lot like Ann.”

“Who?”

“Ann Holly. A woman I was engaged to a couple of years back. Not for long. She was in publishing. Thought I was some sort of romantic, self-made intellectual. As I said, it didn’t last long.”

Bodie said nothing, but Doyle felt his cock harden against his hip. Jealousy, he supposed, pleased, and aroused by the pleasure.

* * * * *

Bodie was working on Friday, and left long before Doyle got up. For some reason Doyle felt like shooting. He drove out to the ranges, and re-discovered what his right arm was for. Some members of his old team were there and he soon found himself back in competition. He really had been missing this since the old Firearms Squad had been reorganised.

In the evening he made his way to Soho to meet Alison. She was already in the pub when he arrived; Terry and Barbara were at the table with her, resting after another exciting day of buying bookshelves, he supposed. He bought them all drinks, and then discovered that T & B were coming to the nightclub as well. He looked at Alison, but she seemed to be fascinated by an old theatre poster on the wall. Barbara told him all about the schedule for her exams, and how her revision was going, and the interviews she’d had; Terry told him about the thrilling calls he and Stone had taken in the area car, and asked for a list of Ruth’s cock-ups. _I don’t have the energy for all this. I must be getting old._

On the way to the club he fell into step with Alison and let the others forge ahead. “I’m really sorry,” she said, when they were out of earshot, “I mentioned to Barbara that we were going out, and immediately she went into the “What a great idea. It’ll be lovely to see Ray again” routine. I couldn’t stop her. It’s a public nightclub.”

“Is their dancing really that dire?”

She shrugged. “You decide. I’m not gonna watch them,” and she didn’t.

 _The problem is_ , thought Doyle half an hour later, _they look like parents joining in at a teenagers’ party_.

He and Alison managed to lose them most of the time because they preferred to watch from the sides, and even on the floor they could pretend they weren’t together. _Am I too concerned with appearances?_ he wondered. _They’re decent people. I just wish they weren’t here_.

Apart from the aesthetic offence that was T & B boogying on down, there was also the annoyance and guilt of feeling them watching himself and Alison. It was making him feel that he was in the wrong place with the wrong people - exactly as he’d felt the first time he’d gone clubbing with Alison, but now much, much stronger. He wanted to be with Bodie, wherever Bodie was, even if it meant being curled up in a sleeping bag in a draughty attic; better still, he wished Bodie were here and he would dance with him, and no one would care, just look at them and think they made a good couple.

* * * * *

As they were setting out again after their meal break on Saturday afternoon, Garret said, “Your friend Bodie, is he with CI5?”

“Does he look like CI5?” Not stalling, really, just curious.

“He was wearing a gun. He looked ... like a security guard, a minder. What does he do?”

“He _is_ with CI5.” He realised now that the story they’d concocted to explain why Bodie had a key to his flat was not going to work. Anyone who knew CI5 security measures would know that an agent would not stay with a friend while his flat was being re-decorated. Have to think of something else - in case she asked.

She nodded, and he knew what was coming next. “Did you meet him in Africa?”

“Yes.”

She nodded again, then smiled, “How are you paying back the 80 gold pieces? Since he couldn’t claim it on expenses.”

He laughed, but didn’t answer.

* * * * *

Bodie had promised himself that he would be with Doyle every night while Doyle was on lates, and he intended to keep that promise, no matter how many favours he had to call in to get the right duties. It seemed to him that he was forever making excuses, and Ray must run out of patience eventually. Also, he didn’t want to leave him on his own too much.

To be with him on Saturday, he swapped minding duties with Murphy. He hadn’t seen much of Murphy since Sunday, but the man was still dropping hints. Bodie stayed as remote as he had the first time. It took some effort to produce that stiff, warning attitude, when inside he felt perfectly relaxed, and could just as well have smiled, and deflected the other man’s interest with a friendly ease. But he knew that Murphy would take that as a promise, an agreement, and that would be too cruel, too much of a betrayal. So he made sure he gave no cause for optimism. To anyone else this might not have seemed a gesture of consideration - certainly not to Murphy, had he known - but it did to Bodie, and he felt he could still claim that he didn’t get his jollies from hurting people.

* * * * *

On Sunday morning Doyle woke first, still adjusting from earlies. He lay on his back, thinking vaguely erotic thoughts, and then ran a hand lightly over his torso. In some patches his chest hair was stuck together with dried semen; Bodie’d skimped in his cleaning, obviously.

He felt full of affection for his lover, but still there was a thread of sadness. He was starting to believe that he’d never - really - be happy with fucking Bodie between the thighs. Sure, he could come like that - they could both come like that - but he nearly always felt as if Bodie were doing him a great favour, humouring him, almost. He didn’t blame Bodie; the man was doing his best. He was the one at fault. He just couldn’t adjust.

What was the big deal about buggering the man, anyway? But even thinking the word speeded his pulse up. He knew what the big deal was. It wasn’t just machismo, the desire for equality, it was that the night in Brijah had been so beautiful. Bodie had surrendered to him; he’d started saying no, and then he’d trusted him enough to let him try, and then he’d enjoyed it. Would he ever feel that sense of achievement again? Would the nightmares ever finish? It was best not to speculate - put your energy into being happy with the present.

When Bodie started stirring, Doyle got coffee for them, and then they talked about the rest of the week, about having a late night with wine and a couple of videos. Tuesday. Why not?

“Are you going to be working on Friday?” It was Doyle’s leave again.

“Mmm. Just the day though. So far. D’you want to meet in town? Have a meal or something?”

Doyle paused for a second. He’d just had a mad idea, and the more he looked at it, the more he liked it. “I know what I’d really like to do.”

“Come on, surprise me. I know. Bingo.”

“I’d like to go dancing with you. Clubbing with you.”

Bodie frowned in puzzlement and made a mock-grimace. “We can if you like. But I can’t see the appeal of sitting around drinking over-priced beer, and watching umpteen Terry’s and Barbara’s making prats of themselves. Still ...”

“I meant really dancing with you.”

The frown deepened.

“In a gay club, Bodie.”

“What!” Apart from that, Bodie seemed speechless.

“I think it would be nice. Every time I go out with Alison I think, _I’d so much rather do this with Bodie_. I’m proud of you, I want to be seen with you. No one would spot us.”

“You’ve just flipped, Ray.” There was no humour in his voice.

“I really don’t think there’s any risk. No more risk than there is in you staying the night, or anything like that. Look, if anyone watched us even for a few days, they’d twig. We’re still in our jobs after a year. No one is watching us. We can afford to relax a bit, go to -“

“No.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t you want to put your arms around me, kiss me on the dance-floor at the end of the evening? You’d be the most beautiful man there, love. Everyone would be so envious ...” He was trying to lighten the mood, but he soon stopped. He could almost be frightened of Bodie when he got that blank, set look.

“I said, no.” Imagine. A roomful of strangers knowing, watching. He felt ill, so ill. He could barely feel the weight of his lover pressed against his side, or the hand that clasped his arm. He closed his eyes.

Doyle gave up. He went to make some more coffee. He felt very deflated, profoundly disappointed as though denied something he’d wanted for years. Bodie wouldn’t even discuss it, couldn’t be bothered even to argue with him. Well, maybe it had been a shock, coming out of the blue like that; maybe Bodie’d get used to the idea.

Bodie was sitting as he’d left him, though his eyes were open now. Doyle got back into bed. They sat in silence. Finally, Bodie said, “Ruth said she’d seen a couple of good films recently. Can you remember what they were?”

Doyle roused himself to answer, and gradually the tension eased. Later, during his shift, Doyle thought that maybe the arguments were healthy, stopped them taking each other for granted. But Bodie was being paranoid, and inconsistently so. As he’d said, there was plenty of evidence for anyone who really looked. For instance, the majority of the cassettes in Bodie’s car were now his, and most had his initials on; what more proof of coupledom did you need? Yet Bodie had never insisted that he remove them, lest ... Murphy or someone should be too observant. No one was that observant; they were safe.

* * * * *

On Tuesday the 27th of May, Ian Murphy died. It was quicker than Bodie had hoped - just over a week.

It was simple. On Monday, Cowley received warning that an assassination attempt was planned for a guest at a Royal Garden Party the next day. There were circumstances which meant that the party could not be cancelled, and the security arrangements for the garden were immediately strengthened. However, the main CI5 effort went into examining the possibilities for a remote attempt - there were some tall buildings bordering the park, and the distance was not so great.

Bodie spent most of Monday leading the investigation into the inhabitants of the flats within range; this was less easy than it would have been in, say, Streatham, since most of them were rich and powerful and he had orders from Cowley not to offend or to identify himself as CI5. Most of the flats they could rule out altogether, but others were promising - recently let, through agencies that ensured anonymity. The more innocuous-looking squad members visited these flats, posing as members of residents’ committees, or the landlords, and used hidden cameras to photograph those who answered the door.

The night was a long search through computer files - there were no favours Bodie could call in to get himself out of that.

Near dawn on Tuesday he left HQ and took up position inside one of the blocks, with Murphy and Taylor on the roof, ready to enter the flats through the windows that looked onto the park. Each of the two had been assigned a number of flats, and Bodie was willing the assassin to be in one of Murphy’s flats.

An hour before the Garden Party was due to start, he was informed over the R/T that Flat 48 was the one. They were positive. It _was_ one of Murphy’s. A brief discussion with 6.2 to agree the timing for breaking in. Bodie had a double dose of adrenalin racing through his system.

He delayed for five seconds at the door.

When he slammed into the flat Murphy was already down. He disposed of the would-be assassin quickly and without risk.

Murphy was unconscious, and the damage was extensive. Still, he waited until he heard running footsteps in the corridor before he called for an ambulance. Ideally, they would have been on their own in a warehouse in the middle of nowhere, so he could have waited without interruptions, to be absolutely sure. But there was no need for the ideal, and Murphy died before the ambulance arrived.

The ambulance appeared quickly and discreetly and the two bodies were removed. Bodie stayed to supervise the withdrawal from the block and the clean-up. It took several hours and at the end he was very glad to get back to HQ and clean himself up. His trousers were stiff and uncomfortable with Murphy’s blood which he’d knelt in as he turned him into the recovery position, just before Petrie came through the door, and Taylor came through the window; the trousers were black, so the stains weren’t bothering anyone apart from himself. He changed into the spare pair he kept in his locker and then went in to give his report to Cowley.

His boss was subdued, but gave no signs of being suspicious. Other squad members were openly sympathetic. They knew Bodie’s skill, but they also knew the part that luck played in all of their lives, and they just agreed quietly that Murph’s had simply run out.

The agents became particularly close at such times. Bodie was not the most popular agent - he had some genuine enemies in the squad - but even the enemies stopped to agree that it was fucking awful luck, and to touch Bodie’s arm or back in acceptance. The rec room was surprised at how hard Bodie was taking this - they’d never seen him so withdrawn - but then he had always got on with Murph.

* * * * *

Bodie _was_ feeling very withdrawn, but he was mourning for himself, not for Murphy. He was not wasting time on remorse, on wishing things undone. Murphy had had to die. That had been decided by aspects of Bodie’s personality over which he had no control. And that was what he was mourning.

He had almost forgotten what he was; since meeting Ray he had thought that he might even be changing, healing, repairing himself. But the last few weeks had proved that he was wrong, and that frightened him, because that meant that one day Ray would find out what he’d been sleeping with, what was in love with him, and then it would all be over.

It was amazing that it had lasted so long anyway, that he’d managed to fool Ray about his mental health. He functioned well enough to get Dr. Ross’ grudging acceptance, but he knew he was a mess. He regarded himself as both Frankenstein and monster, an ugly piece of kitchen-table grafting and transplant; the operation had kept him alive, though, and he had thought it was justified. But today the scars seemed livid, some of the wounds had opened and were weeping, and he felt the pain in his stomach and lungs. He was frightened to talk to anyone, lest he sound as disjointed as he felt.

When he got home he was feeling worse than ever. It was a beautiful spring evening and when he opened a window it seemed as if he could smell Hyde Park, as if a cloud of perfume and warmth and leisure had just rushed in.

He closed the window.

The flat was immaculate, expect for an amber stain on a cushion. He threw the cushion away, along with his black trousers.

At first the order around him just reminded him more strongly of how ridiculous it was that he was living here. Really, it could not last much longer.

He was like that girl in “The Chrysalids”, which he’d borrowed from Petrie one endless obbo and read in one sitting. The story was about a future where mutants were driven out and hunted down, and what he remembered most was a girl with six toes who’d been undetected because she’d been taught never to show her feet. That was him, but he had nothing as trivial as an extra toe.

At the moment he felt as if his chest was covered with mad, staring eyes and silently screaming mouths. No one had found out about him because he’d learnt to keep covered up, and no one had checked. But today the covering was thin, and there might even be some rips in it.

And he was due at Ray’s in a few hours to curl up in the corner of the settee and watch videos. That was something normal people did - not him, not now. He wouldn’t get away with it. But he had to go. He’d promised himself. It was important. He knew it was important. But it would be over with Ray. Very soon, it would be over.

But gradually the order around him reminded him of how he had survived so far. Bodie. Bodie hated mess. Bodie could hide anything. Even if the mouths started to scream out loud he’d find some way of gagging them, and eventually they would stop. Bodie could cope with anything. Yes. He would take a shower, clean up. No sweat - that was one of Bodie’s lines. Stay cool. Yes.

* * * * *

Doyle was surprised to find the flat empty when he came in with the videos and an extra bottle of wine. Bodie had sounded so sure, when he called on Monday night, that he’d be around in good time.

He ‘phoned Bodie’s flat, and let it ring for long enough to let Bodie get out of the shower and change into full evening dress. Then he turned on the news hoping for a hint as to what might be keeping Bodie, but there was nothing. _Don’t fret. Just don’t fret._ He opened the wine and sat down with the first film.

Bodie arrived just after ten thirty, dressed entirely in black, looking hard and aggressive. He sat on the far end of the settee, not his usual place at all, and didn’t even nod in thanks when Doyle placed a glass in his hand.

Doyle turned the sound down on the TV, rewound the tape, and sat down some inches away from Bodie. He started talking about the tapes he’d rented, watching the tense face carefully. _I hate it when he brings work home like this. I ought to get some sort of compensation._

“I remembered Terry going on about it a while ago and I thought -“

“How often d’you practise, then, with the shooting team?”

Not missing a beat. “Team practice is Wednesday evenings, so I make two out of three. ‘n’ I try to go twice a week, just on my own.” An attempt at a smile. “Bit rusty, you know.”

No smile. No response. Bodie just launched into a lecture on rifles, as if this were the first day of a training course. Had Murph heard this, word for word?

Doyle had never seen him like this. Tense, yes, but usually making a visible effort to wind down. Today he didn’t even seem to be aware of his own state. The best thing was probably to go along with it, wait for it to play itself out. He listened seriously to the lecture, nodding. After a minute or so Bodie started answering his questions, and eventually it turned into a conversation of sorts.

* * * * *

“Hard day at work?”

A shrug. “Nothing special.”

“Oh.” Doyle made his surprise obvious. “You seem very tense.”

Another shrug. Bodie emptied his glass in one mouthful. Doyle refilled it.

“How late were you working last night anyway? Did you get any sleep, or is that an Official Secret?”

Bodie had never had to deal with this before; he was used to protecting himself from enemies, not from friends. Maybe he should try relaxing, or looking as if he were relaxed. Make Ray think everything was normal. He leaned back, trying to sprawl, but careful not to get too close to Ray.

“Don’t think I did sleep, unless I was having a very boring dream about looking at a computer screen all night.” He sighed. “Too much coffee. ‘m on edge, I guess. Sorry. Forget about me. Let’s watch the films, eh?”

He stood up to go to the TV, but Doyle grabbed his hand and pulled him back down. “’s a thriller. Won’t help. Busman’s holiday for you. Just sit down, and ...” He shifted his grip and rubbed gently around Bodie’s knuckles, wanting to soothe.

The contact caused chaos within Bodie; he started to sweat. The pain was there again in his stomach, sharper than ever.

Ray smelt so beautiful; his touch was so warm, so gentle. He was talking about his day, about Ruth’s continuing complaints about the section house. Bodie heard little except the liveliness and the warmth, and knew he shouldn’t be here, not while he was feeling as if he was rotting away inside. But the pounding of blood that came with the chaos and the pain was centring between his legs. He should go away. He could do no good here. He shouldn’t have come, should have said that he was still working.

Stupid. He’d thought that Bodie could cope with everything, and had forgotten that he’d never tried to cope with Ray Doyle.

Doyle was aware of the quickened breath and pulse, and of the arousal. Now that was a good reason for being tense - he’d been there himself. Easy to deal with, though.

Bodie had decided to make some excuse and go. He pulled his hand gently from Ray’s, and opened his mouth to take a deep breath. The breath became a gasp as Doyle reached over and squeezed his cock through the thin cotton slacks. There was a moment in which Bodie seemed to be struggling, but Doyle ignored this, sure he was doing the right thing, unable to imagine that Bodie would ever turn him down.

Even so, it was painful to watch him. He was so desperate and so mute, seemed almost to be suffering. Why on earth was he holding back? Maybe ... he’d learnt his lesson after that time in the kitchen. But this wasn’t the same. Not at all.

Doyle eased the zip down and freed the rigid organ. Jesus, he looked beautiful: the embodiment of sex. The sight, the smell made Doyle salivate, and as he pulled down his own trousers he told his lover all he was feeling. But Bodie’s eyes were shut and he gave no indication that he heard.

* * * * *

Bodie _was_ suffering. His cock felt as if it had been flayed, somehow, without the skin having been taken away. Just under the surface was an unbearable ... need. It was raw, and everything fluid in him seemed to be pulled towards that bleeding surface.

When Doyle’s mouth closed over him he whimpered, and there was nothing of pleasure in the sound. Doyle’s heart contracted in pity, and he worked to end it quickly, giving no thought to himself.

Afterwards Bodie looked dazed and lost, and he was still silent. Doyle petted him, wondering if he was doing the right thing, if he should have left him alone. No, he needed it; they both needed it. The next time would be better for Bodie, who was hardening already.

They’d better go to bed. The sofa wasn’t big enough for this, and it was hell to clean. He took Bodie’s shoes and socks off, then persuaded him to his feet and out of his trousers.

In the bedroom Bodie was very reluctant to be parted from his pullover, but Doyle’s teasing compliments and light kisses across his stomach and ribs finally worked. Doyle did not see and would not have understood the look of relief that crossed Bodie’s face when he surveyed his own smooth torso and saw that there were no eyes or mouths - of course there weren’t. He looked quite normal.

Doyle finished undressing and then stood by the bed looking down. Bodie seemed less lost-looking, but still very passive. He wondered again if he was doing the right thing. He knelt beside the bed and put an arm around his chest and kissed his cheek.

“Are you OK?”

After a long pause the man nodded.

“You were really ... wound up back in there. You didn’t enjoy it at all.”

Bodie didn’t answer, just raised a hand and traced a finger around Doyle’s lips, rather clumsily. He was intent, unsmiling. Doyle smiled though, warmed by this evidence of feeling, the warmth moving swiftly from his stomach to his cock. He moved his arm from Bodie’s chest, down the flat stomach, to between his legs. This time there was appreciation in his lover’s groan, not torment.

He threaded his fingers teasingly through the thick black hair, checking frequently to see that Bodie was content. He was delighted when Bodie’s hand came to join his: it was the man’s first sign of active involvement that evening, and, besides, he loved to watch him touch himself.

After a few moments he withdrew his hand and, sitting back, said, “I think I’ll just let you get on with it.”

But Bodie sat up and reached out for him, and pulled him onto the bed, and that was the end of Bodie’s passivity. He still did not speak, though, and that frightened Doyle slightly, though it was also exciting. Bodie was not rough or cruel, his touches were as gentle and skilful as ever, but he seemed to be concentrated on his own secret purpose and that was unnerving. But that was all very subjective and there was nothing for Doyle to object to, no reason for him to call a halt, especially not when his body wanted it to go on forever.

Soon Bodie turned him onto his stomach and moved down the bed to kneel beside his buttocks. Hands cupped the muscled curves and stroked in delicate circles; he knew that they were telling him that he was beautiful, knew exactly the quality of admiration that motivated each moment of pressure from the strong fingers. They shifted, and one hand widened the cleft while the other brushed over the anus, and then returned with saliva to probe shallowly.

Doyle breathed harshly and opened his legs wider. He felt Bodie move and hoped he was getting into position to fuck him, and raised his hips to help. But the man had simply knelt astride his right leg. He opened his mouth to plead, but what came out was a long, broken groan as a hot silky tongue forced its way through the ring of muscle. From that point he gave up all desire to influence events.

He just went with the flow as Bodie eased him up onto his knees and rocketed him to orgasm with omniscient fingers in his arse and around his cock and then penetrated him in one swift movement while he was still quaking and mindless.

When it was over Bodie stayed inside him for what seemed like a very long time, long enough for him to savour the presence inside him long after the fevers of arousal had broken, and to wonder if, without ben Yussef’s interference, he’d ever have found out how much he enjoyed being fucked. No, they would have met somehow. Nothing could keep them apart.

Eventually, however, he was forced to decide that if Bodie didn’t get off him right now, he would undoubtedly scream the block down when his vertebrae changed alignment. He paraphrased this as: “Sweetheart, I love you, but you’re breaking my back.”

Slowly and carefully the man raised himself and withdrew. He knelt beside Ray and helped him move onto his side, and then held him through the few seconds of pain and beyond.

He was still silent. At that moment he had almost no idea who he was, except that he was a worthless killer and that he was the man who adored Ray Doyle. He did not belong in the realm of human speech.

* * * * *

Doyle studied the pale, sweating face on the pillow beside him. He combed his fingers through the damp fringe and kissed the beautiful curve of the cheekbones. After over a minute Bodie opened his eyes. Doyle frowned in concern at the return of that expression that was so unlike the usual reassuring certainty. “Are you sure you’re OK, love?”

A nod.

Doyle was starting to wonder if that meaningless exchange about sleep was the last dialogue they’d ever have. “Bodie?”

Round, anxious eyes.

“Bodie, speak to me please. You’re worrying me.”

The eyes closed. Doyle’s rib-cage flexed in the tightened grip. “I love you.” Almost inaudible.

It was _not_ reassuring. What would he have to do to get Bodie back to normal? “Glad to hear it.” He managed to smile, and to put the smile in his voice. “Otherwise I’d have to think you’d gone right off me.”

Blue eyes snapped open, and Bodie whispered with desperate sincerity, “Never!”

 _Jesus!_ He held the smile, though. “Joke, Bodie. Remember jokes?” running a finger lightly along the straight nose. “Have you eaten today? An empty stomach never helps your sense of humour.”

“Coffee? I think.”

“That’s _not_ eating. Right. We’ll have a shower, then we’ll eat, and you’ll fall asleep in front of the TV.”

* * * * *

It was as Doyle predicted. He steered Bodie back to bed, cleared up, and joined him. It was past one when he set the alarm, his birthday, and he hadn’t even noticed. “Hey, Bodie. I’m thirty. What was it your mum used to say about older men?” But Bodie was asleep.

They watched the videos on Wednesday night instead, and everything seemed back to normal. Doyle decided it wasn’t worth having a post-mortem. It was obvious that Bodie had been suffering from some strange excess of passion, diverted into disturbing paths by the pressures of a long, hard day. Bodie’s strong emotions were part of his fascination - and you couldn’t expect to identify them all as they swept by.

He didn’t mention his birthday again. Bodie would only be embarrassed that he hadn’t known, and rush out at ten thirty to get something extravagant. No one else knew anyway - it was no big deal.

* * * * *

Alison came round on Friday night, as they’d arranged the previous Friday. He kept telling himself it wouldn’t be much longer now. A month, six weeks, and she’d be off to Somerset. He’d already invented an excuse - team practice at one - to get her out of the flat early on Saturday so that he could spend the afternoon at Bodie’s. It was the start of nights for him, and Bodie’s free weekends were very valuable.

However, he didn’t even have to proffer his excuse. To his surprise, she left his bed at ten on Saturday morning, and was out of the flat in half an hour. The exams were about to start, and she wanted to lay down food for the duration.

Despite a later start, he probably arrived at Bodie’s before she was half-way to the Hall.

But Bodie was not in, or not answering the door.

Doyle sulked near the main entranceway for a few minutes, then went back to wait in his car. There was nothing bearable on the radio, and all his decent cassettes were in Bodie’s car, so he started to re-read that book on Scott. For some reason it just deepened his sulk.

Just before midday the silver Capri appeared. Its driver was wearing a plain black suit and looked exceptionally smart and subdued. Presumably he’d just come back from unusually tedious baby-sitting at a very formal meeting. Doyle joined him just as he was opening the front door.

“You’re early.” A tone which just escaped being accusatory.

“She left to do some shopping.”

They studied the passing floors with apparent fascination, too absorbed to speak.

Once inside Bodie got drinks and then downed his scotch without letting it near his tastebuds. He loosened his tie, then dropped his jacket on an armchair.

As Doyle watched from the settee, he was instantly aware that there was something wrong, but it took about ten seconds for his conscious mind to catch up with his sub-conscious.

“You’re not armed.”

Bodie stared at him in blank incomprehension.

“If you’re not armed, you haven’t been baby-sitting. So what are you doing dressed like that on a Saturday morning?”

Bodie closed his eyes briefly. He could really do without this.

“Have you just come back from a funeral?”

“Brilliant, Sherlock.”

Doyle was slightly taken aback by the success of his deductions. “Whose? Anyone I know?”

Bodie sighed. “Murphy.”

“Jesus! What happened? My God.” A pause. “How old was he?” he asked in wonder.

A shrug. “Twenty seven, I think. Never asked.” Bodie poured himself more Scotch and sat down in the armchair, dumping the jacket on the floor.

“What happened?” More urgently.

“He was shot.”

Doyle waited. Then, “When?”

“’bout one in the afternoon. Give or take a few minutes.”

“You _know_ what I _mean_.”

“Tuesday.” Bodie just wanted to be left alone for an hour - when he decided to dig his heels in, your carpet was never the same again.

“Did you know about this at the time? I mean, you didn’t just find out yesterday, or anything?”

“I was there. You could say he died in my arms.” Quite matter-of-fact.

Doyle leapt up and fore-handed Bodie’s glass out of his hand. It flew across the room and smashed against the bedroom doors. “Why didn’t you fucking tell me?” His throat would feel raw for three days afterwards.

Bodie shrugged with a minimum expenditure of energy. He seemed barely to have noticed that the glass was gone.

“Damn you! Why?” He grasped the collar of Bodie’s shirt, leaning close in to his face.

An irritated frown, and Bodie batted Doyle’s hand away. “Leave me alone.”

“You’ve got to be joking. You’re not getting away with this. Why. Didn’t. You. Tell. Me.”

“CI5 business.”

“Crap. You told me just now, didn’t you? You’ve gotta do better than that.”

“I had a ... hard day on Tuesday, and -“

“Not as hard as Murph. Or me. I’m the one you take it out on at the end of _your_ hard days. The one you fuck through the mattress. Remember?”

“- I just wasn’t ready to talk about it then. Murph was -“

“Just another bloke you work with. That’s all. I _know_ how tough you are. I’m not buying any story about shock. You got over that years ago. And you just got yourself all knotted up, and you came to me to fuck it out of your system, but you couldn’t be bloody bothered to tell me what was going on.”

“No.” Bodie was shaking his head, finally accepting that Ray wasn’t going to go away, that he would have to deal with him right now. But how? “Look, it wasn’t your problem. I didn’t -“

“You _made_ it my problem by treating me like that. Don’t you understand? What you should have done is _talk_ to me. And not about bloody guns. ‘Oh, Ray. We fucked up and Murph’s dead, and I’ve been terrified all day. Help me.’ That’s what people do when they love each other, Bodie - talk to each other, help each other, think about what the other one’s feeling. Not just clam up and _fuck_.”

Bodie was clambering to his feet, breathing rapidly and shallowly. “I _do_ love you. You know I love you.”

“You say that, but right now I’m not sure what you mean by it. If you mean what _I_ mean. I don’t think you even _care_ what I mean. I’m just something you _use_ , because you’re stronger and you got the upper hand from the beginning, and because - God help me - I let you. I kept on telling myself it was OK, but no more.”

Doyle could have been Bodie talking to his father. Bodie was trembling as Ray awoke his worst fears. “I didn’t hurt you?” he pleaded. “I’d never hurt you. I don’t ... do that. I told you, I don’t like hurting people.”

“You think that’s all I’m talking about? You think everything must be OK as long as you’re not beating me up? You’ve got no idea, have you?”

“I - I - _Ray!_ ”

“Last chance. Why didn’t you tell me about Murphy on Tuesday?”

Bodie just stared at him, open mouthed, obviously not going to speak.

Abruptly Doyle turned sad, seeing the end standing in front of him, after all this time. “Oh, Bodie. You’ll never change. I’m sorry. For both of us.” He started to turn away.

But Bodie was suddenly kneeling in front of him, arms wrapped tight around his hips, face pressed into his stomach. “Bodie! Stop it!” He pushed at him, but the grip only tightened. “Stop it, for God’s sake.” It was such an awkward situation. _What am I going to have to do to him to make him let go?_ “Come on, Bodie.” Gentler, like talking to a civilian.

The front of his T-shirt was getting damp. It took him some seconds to admit to the sensations, then he stood still, and quiet. He could hear Bodie now, breathing as if his throat were made of sandpaper. Then Bodie’s scalp was warm under his hands, his hair soft. Well, what else could you do?

“Please. I will change. I will. Please.”

“I don’t know, Bodie.” Voice nearly as shaky as Bodie’s.

“Talking ... I - I’ve never had anyone who’d listen before, and ... I didn’t know. I will now. I promise. And ... and I _do_ think about you. All the time. Think about what you’re feeling. About making you happy. I just - You know I’m stupid. I just need more time. I’ll change. Please.”

Doyle had already decided. Yes, it must be true that he was the first person who’d loved Bodie enough to listen to him when he was hurt. He hadn’t given him a chance, not really.

“It’s OK. Bodie, it’s OK.” And very soon it was.

* * * * *

In the afternoon they went for a long walk around Hyde Park. Doyle asked more about Murphy’s death and the funeral, and Bodie told him what he could about the assassination plan, and about the simple service, and the grave at West Norwood cemetery. He did not want to admit that CI5 had a special section there, nor how rapidly it was filling, and Doyle did not ask, though he might have guessed.

On the way back they fought their way through Harrods’ Food Halls for some wine and various delicacies, and by the time they meandered back to Marble Arch it was past six. Bodie straightened up from putting the delicacies in the fridge to find Ray standing very close. “What shall we do next?” he asked.

Doyle drew him into a soft kiss. “I think we should make love.”

* * * * *

Doyle smiled up at the vision of Bodie framed in the double doorway with nothing about his person but a bottle of wine and two glasses. “I think you’re about to start a whole new fashion in wine-waiting.”

He rolled over as Bodie walked around the side of the bed, and reached out to stroke the softened cock and the black pubic hair that still held drops of semen. A warm hand covered his and they looked at each other, utterly contented.

“Just a small glass. I’m working tonight.” Bodie poured a single glass, and they shared it.

Doyle couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so relaxed. The argument had been a catharsis, and now they were much closer, calmer, more secure. So much so that, after a few sips of wine, he felt able to say, “Bodie? Would you reconsider what I said the other day? About us going clubbing together? I really would like it.”

The other man did not reply for some time. He knew that what Doyle was asking was impossible for him - the secrets had to be kept - but he couldn’t explain that, and he didn’t know how to refuse him. Last time he’d been harsh, and cold, and he couldn’t bear to do that again, especially not now.

“I don’t know, Ray. I think it _is_ too risky.” An apologetic smile. “And I’m not much of a dancer.”

“That doesn’t matter. You don’t have to dance if you don’t want to. We don’t even have to stay very long. But it would mean a lot to me, not having to hide what I feel for you, even just for a short while, even though no one around us will even notice. I feel like a character in a musical, you know, where the guy’s so much in love he stands in the middle of the street and sings his heart out. And it’s difficult not even being able to admit that you’re my best friend or anything.” He stroked the solid thigh next to his own and tried to smile.

“You know I’d marry you if it were possible. If you’d have me.”

“I’d have you. Will you reconsider going clubbing?”

A pause. “I’ll think about it. But give me a while, please. I’ve been in high-security jobs for the last few years, and ... I can’t take this lightly.”

Doyle nodded, pleased, and leaned even closer.

Bodie tightened his hold and confessed, “I’m jealous, too, I think. I want to keep you all to myself. Don’t want you to look at anyone else, or anyone else to look at you.”

“Don’t worry. I can never keep my eyes off you.”


	10. Heat-Trace - Chapter 8

## Chapter 8

Over the next few days they spent all their common free-time together. It seemed to Doyle as if their affair was re-born every few months. He’d feel as if they’d reached a peak of honesty or passion or closeness, and then something would happen to lift them even further.

The ending of the argument on Saturday had seemed to him an amplification of the first time he’d seen Bodie cry; the time in the desert when he’d accepted that his life was changing because they’d met. Saturday had been extraordinary: he’d felt a hungry protectiveness, and also a strange triumph that he was capable of producing such strong emotions. He felt he’d won the argument, even though, in the end, Bodie hadn’t explained why he’d behaved as he had on the evening of Murphy’s death.

On Wednesday Doyle went to the practice session for the shooting team, and it was the first evening they spent apart. He had been tempted to miss it, but the competition was a week away. Afterwards he ‘phoned Bodie from the range, wanting to hear his voice before he headed off to work, but there was no reply.

On Thursday evening, Bodie arrived at Doyle’s shortly before seven. Doyle talked about the competition, which he was now starting to look forward to, and then asked Bodie what he’d done with his Wednesday evening.

Bodie paused, then said, “I went out for a drink with some members of the squad and a couple of instructors who are on loan from some group in the States for a fortnight. Then I had sex with one of the instructors back at her hotel.”

Doyle jerked with reaction. “I suppose you’re going to tell me she was all over you in the pub, and you couldn’t turn her down without the lads instantly deciding you were a second Quentin Crisp. Despite the fact that it’s only three weeks since you finished with Teresa.”

“That’s exactly what I’m going to tell you, but only because it’s true.”

“I called you from the range.” Full of reproach. Afterwards Doyle would be astonished at how quickly he could move from elation to depression; he had probably set some kind of speed record.

“I didn’t ask you to. I wasn’t to know.”

There was a long silence.

“So how long is this going to keep you safe? For Christ’s sake, what do you have to do to convince Lucas and Taylor that you’re one hundred percent heterosexual, so that you can pass up this sort of thing once in a while, or even for good?”

Bodie shrugged, and did not reply.

“You’d better tell me about her, I suppose,” Doyle sighed.

“Her name’s Chris. She’s a combat instructor. She and Holly are over giving short courses on how to fight women to most of the UK security organisations.”

“Just short courses?” A nod. “Have they finished with CI5 now?” Another nod. “So you won’t need to see her again.”

This time Bodie shook his head. “I’m taking her sightseeing at the weekend.”

“Oh no, Bodie.” It was part plea, part command. Bodie just looked at him impassively, lower lip protruding fractionally. “Please don’t. I can’t believe that it’s necessary. It can’t do you any good with the lads. What’s the point?”

“If I don’t, there’s a risk she could make a report on me. It’s safer like this.”

“Oh, come on. She sounds like a woman of the world. Used to one night stands. I want you to spend the weekend with me. I can’t believe you have to do this.” He paused and narrowed his eyes. “Unless you want to, of course.”

“I don’t,” said Bodie shortly.

He really didn’t. One night had been bad enough. Chris had gone for him as the roughest item of trade she’d seen on her tour; she was far tougher than Marrika (who’d been tough enough), and she knew exactly what she wanted. He had no illusions that she liked him, and she was perfectly capable of being vindictive if he didn’t give her what she wanted. After Murphy, his sense of self-worth was still fragile; one night with Chris had shaken it, and a weekend could crush it. But it had to be done.

“Then do as I ask and stay with me. Please. It would mean a lot if you would.” He continued in a lower voice, “It would prove that you care,” and watched with a mixture of satisfaction and shame as Bodie closed his eyes and winced.

“I can’t, Ray. You don’t know her. She’s ...” He swallowed. “She’s not forgiving. I daren’t.”

Doyle was baffled. He was also very hurt. Was Bodie ever going to take his wishes into consideration? It appeared not. Damn. The problem with being boosted to a new height was that the fall was so much harder.

* * * * *

Doyle was very quiet for the rest of the evening. Bodie cooked - scrambled eggs and a salad - and they sat with the TV on. The start of Doyle’s shift drew nearer.

Bodie stood up. “Ray,” he began quietly, “is there anything I can do to make this easier?”

“I’ve told you what I want you to do and you said no. You always say no.”

“It’s necessary. You agreed that. We can’t afford to be found out. I’m not fit for any other job, and you love the force. This is just for this weekend, and then ... I won’t go out with the lads when there’s women around. That’ll help, won’t it? I don’t ... go looking for this, Ray, honestly. It’s only if I can’t avoid it. I’d rather be with you, always.”

Doyle wasn’t listening. He was thinking that he knew very well what would make it easier, but it wasn’t something he could have. He was feeling jealous and powerless, and he wanted to show his possession of Bodie, and make the man respond to his will.

He knew very well how he wanted to do this, and he wanted it even more because Bodie had done it to him. It was very basic: he wanted to wrestle him to the ground, strip him and fuck him. Not to force him, of course not, but to have him want it, be thrilled by it, as he, Doyle, had been when Bodie had proved that he was jealous about Alison after all. But it wasn’t possible, and he couldn’t think of a decent substitute. Fucking him between the thighs - well, that required too much cooperation - there wouldn’t be even the illusion of victory.

But he needed something, and as Bodie finished his speech he decided that he’d make sure he’d get ... something. When he spoke, his voice was in harsh, cold contrast to Bodie’s soothing tones.

“Bodie.”

Raised eyebrows. Eager to help.

“Suck me off. Now.”

Bodie showed no signs of shock. Maybe he’d been expecting this. Without hesitation he knelt by Doyle’s feet, helped ease him out of his tight jeans, and then moved between his spread thighs. Doyle found it all very exciting: the compliance of the stronger man, the sight of the dark head bending over him, the attentions of the hot mouth.

But less than a minute afterwards he was sure that it had been a mistake. What had he gained? What had be proved? Bodie had not even shared his excitement.

“It didn’t help?”

Doyle shook his head.

“I’m sorry.”

A deep sigh. “Why don’t you go home, Bodie? There’s no point in you staying the night.”

Bodie turned away, and fetched his jacket from the armchair. “What about tomorrow?”

“I’m seeing Alison.”

“Monday then.”

“Yeah.”

Bodie let himself out.

* * * * *

Alison’s exams had started and she was not a happy woman. She was in an unusual mood - oddly vulnerable and needing reassurance. He tried to joke with her, and cheer her up with a light, brotherly affection. But that was definitely not what she wanted. When they were off the dance floor she sat very close to him, and he took the hints and put his arm around her.

She talked about the job in Somerset, though half the time she was convincing herself that she wouldn’t get the necessary results. He tried to reassure her, but he didn’t know enough about her work at college to guess whether she was being pessimistic or realistic; she hadn’t talked much about college, and he hadn’t really listened when she had. He agreed to visit her soon after she got settled, and managed to sound as if he was looking forward to it.

When the slow dancing started, he thought, “Thank God. We can go home now,” but she announced that this D.J. had better taste than most - though Doyle couldn’t hear any difference - and didn’t let them off the floor for nearly an hour. It was a strain. She was in a very cuddly mood, and to discourage her was a cruelty Doyle was not capable of, though he was hoping that the next time they met she would be her usual brisk self. So he held her, and tried to make her feel good about herself.

It was difficult to break his usual habit of holding back when he was in public with her, so he imagined that he was with Bodie. The physique was all wrong, of course, but he’d imagined this many times before, and his fantasies swept him over the incongruity and the initial awkwardness.

They got home around four in the morning. Alison seemed happy and tired and kept on insisting that the night had been exactly what she’d needed.

Doyle lay awake beside her for some time. There was a mild throbbing in his groin, which had little to do with the woman beside him.

Bodie. Bodie and Chris.

A combat instructor. He imagined an amazon, a Wonder Woman, as tall as Bodie, with thick dark hair, and a tan showing off long, perfect muscles. He imagined athletic, almost-choreographed sex. Bodie would be sharing a hotel room with Chris now, both sticky and exhausted.

Through his jealousy he felt a surge of cold rage against the world that made it so easy for Bodie and Chris, and for himself and Alison, and so difficult for himself and Bodie. So smug and narrow-minded of it to think that real love - love worth encouraging - could only occur between a man and a woman. He and Bodie were ten times more suited to each other than he and Ann had ever been, but the world must see them only as friends, who drank together, and played computer games together. No booking double beds in hotels. No holding hands in the cinema. No automatic inclusion of Bodie with invitations to parties or dinner. The rage turned fierce and made him determined that he wasn’t going to hide; he was proud of what they had, what they were, and he would get some acknowledgement, somehow.

* * * * *

They woke around midday on Saturday. Alison was still in a cuddly mood, and the cuddles turned into gentle, affectionate sex. Afterwards he was expecting her to insist of rushing back to the Hall to revise, but her next exam wasn’t until Tuesday, and she seemed to have decided to give herself a decent weekend.

He made a substantial breakfast, and then they went for a walk on Hampstead Heath. He suggested looking in at Highgate Cemetery, but she shuddered at the idea. She finally left his flat at eight, thanking him for cheering her up and promising to let him know how the remaining exams went.

After she’d gone he thought about sending her a good luck card for the Tuesday exam which she was dreading, and then realised that he really should have done it a week ago. He just hadn’t thought. He rarely thought about her, except as something that would keep him from Bodie. She hadn’t reproached him; maybe she never thought about him either, unless she needed a bop, or some other diversion.

* * * * *

On Monday evening he was positively looking forward to seeing Bodie again. The frustration he’d felt on Thursday had faded. The time he’d spent with Alison had reminded him of how much he and Bodie had in common. They got on for much more of the time than they fought, though it did seem that they’d been fighting a lot recently.

The gentle comfort he’d been showing to Alison had extended to Bodie because he’d been thinking about him a lot, and had been using fantasies of him to help him be nice to his female lover. He didn’t feel particularly guilty about this; he’d eventually accepted Bodie’s insistence that what he was doing was necessary, and he just got on with it; what Alison didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

He’d hoped Bodie would arrive early so they could go to a film, but when the man let himself in at half-past six, he dismissed that idea immediately: Bodie looked exhausted and drained. He tried to brighten up to return his lover’s greetings, but couldn’t control his yawns. Doyle steered him to bed. Was this caused by work or Chris? He wasn’t happy on it, whatever it was. Doyle got himself something to eat, read for an hour, and then decided to join Bodie. He wasn’t tired, but he could doze - some people did it as a hobby.

Bodie was fast asleep, curled away from the middle of the bed. Doyle smiled at the dark head, and undressed very quietly. He glanced over, still smiling, as he lifted the duvet. Then he froze. Bodie’s back was covered with marks.

He folded the quilt right back, and moved closer. Bodie didn’t stir. Scratches. Bruises. Bite-marks. On his thighs too, and his arms.

“How _dare_ you? You bastard! Coming here like this!”

Bodie was blinking up at him, totally disoriented. He struggled for a moment against the arms that had rolled him onto his back. “Ray? What’s happening?”

“I see you had a good weekend.”

“No. No, I didn’t.” That was putting it mildly. He felt empty. Chris had hurt him emotionally and physically. She claimed it was passion; he was sure it was contempt. But Bodie wasn’t supposed to be sensitive to things like that, was supposed to regard all sex as just an intense form of exercise, and that was how he’d played it through the endless weekend. He didn’t dare do anything else. He’d got through it by thinking about Ray, about coming home to him and falling asleep in his arms.

“Oh, really? You got all this looking round castles and cathedrals and having cream teas and fish and chips, did you? She must be something else. You’ll have some tales to tell the lads, eh? Better do it before the proof fades.”

“Please, Ray -“

“No. I _asked_ you not to go with her this weekend. You knew perfectly bloody well how I felt. I don’t know why you’re rubbing my nose in it like this. Jesus, if you let me get away with half of ...” He dragged his thumbs over Bodie’s raw nipples. The arch of pain made his already-swollen cock jolt. His face was a mask of hunger and rage, which Bodie had seen many times before, but never on Ray.

Bodie licked his hand thoroughly and folded it round the livid cock. He didn’t know how to defuse this type of anger, could only think of controlling the explosion, limiting the damage.

Doyle cried out, wrapped his fist around Bodie’s, and thrust wildly, groaning hoarsely, until he came over Bodie’s chest and face. He knelt beside him, shuddering, then fell sideways onto the bed.

“Ray? D’you want a drink?” Now it was Bodie who was kneeling on the bed.

Doyle’s face twisted, and he didn’t open his eyes.

“I’ll get you a scotch.” The bed rocked, and footsteps padded away. There were sounds from the bathroom and the sitting room, then the footsteps came back. “There you go.” A cold glass resting against the back of his hand.

“I hurt you.”

“Not really. It’s alright.”

“I’m not like that.”

“I know. It’s alright.” Bodie’s hand on his hair, thumb rubbing gently across his forehead, drawing away the guilt. He opened his eyes.

* * * * *

The six weeks of tutoring Garrett were over and he had another six weeks or so as a regular beat constable before going back to the car. He’d still see Ruth every day, and sometimes they’d end up on patrol together, but it wouldn’t be the same.

He spent the first day on foot patrol with Medland, bored, wondering when would be the best time to invite Ruth around for dinner and “Frogger”, and planning a special meal for Bodie for the evening.

They took their time over the meal, talking over plans for their holiday, which now seemed very close. Bodie started the washing up while Doyle put a record on, then they cleared the kitchen together, and finally relaxed in Doyle’s corner of the settee with the coffee and brandy.

_This is what we need. A quiet evening in, just talking. Not fighting. It seems so long._

“Got the competition tomorrow, eh?”

“Yeah. I’m not expecting too much, though. Out of practice.”

“You’ll still leave ‘em standing. Can I come along?”

A pause. “Seriously?”

“Course.”

“Be great but ... how do I explain you? I can’t say you’re CI5 and we met in Africa. They gossip like crazy. I’d never hear the end of it.”

“Say I’m government security and we met over a case you were working on. It’s not a lie, but it’s so boring they’ll forget it straight off.”

After some thought: “OK.” Then a grin. “How are you going to reward me if I win, or console me if I lose?”

Bodie grinned back. “Dunno. Make your request.”

A gleam entered Doyle’s eyes. “Clubbing at the weekend.” The gleam vanished as he saw Bodie’s reaction. “You said you’d think about it.”

“I _have_ been thinking about it. I haven’t changed my mind.” A heavy sigh. “I wish you’d stop going on about it.”

“It’s important to me.”

“I don’t know why. What’s the big deal about holding hands in a roomful of queers?”

Doyle’s face twisted. “Why do you have to make it sound so ugly? I’ve tried to explain to you why I want it, but it doesn’t sound as if you’ve listened. You can’t even come up with a decent reason why we shouldn’t do it. You just talk about ‘queers’. I hate that word.”

Bodie cursed himself inwardly. The row he’d been hoping to prevent, and he’d just boosted it by showing his true feelings. At times like this he knew he wasn’t fit to be let out. Could he repair the damage? “I’m sorry, Ray. I _have_ listened. I _do_ understand. But you know life’s not like that. And ... I can’t believe you’d be comfortable in one of those places.”

“What do you mean?” A narrow-eyed look.

Bodie shrugged. “Well, you’re not queer, are you?”

“I would never describe myself as ‘queer’. I would say I was ‘gay’.” In a voice so tight you could string a violin with it.

Bodie stared at him. “You can’t mean that.”

Doyle just raised his eyebrows in challenge.

They sat in silence for well over a minute.

Bodie’s face was utterly pale. “Who?”

“Eh?”

“Who’s been telling you that you’re ... gay. Who have you ... been with?”

“Nobody. Don’t be so stupid.”

Bodie was shaking his head vigorously. “You’ve already been to these clubs, haven’t you? That’s why you’re so keen. You’ve met another man. Or other men. You’ve been comparing me with them. I knew it, that night at the club -“

“Shut up! Shut up, you idiot.”

Bodie shut up.

After another long silence, Doyle said, voice shaking, “I don’t know why I should bother to try and explain after that. But I suppose I’m used to making allowances for you being a paranoid ... shit. But I warn you, Bodie, you are running out of last chances.”

He took a deep breath. “I haven’t been with anyone else. You know exactly how many men I’ve had sex with. No one told me I was gay. I worked it out for myself. It was simple. I’m passionately in love with a man - when he isn’t being a paranoid shit - and sex with him is the best I’ve had in my life. I love your body. I love touching it. I love it when you touch me. And I love it when you fuck me.

His voice was shaking so much that he had to stop. When it was under control again, he continued, “I think that makes me gay. If you feel the same way about me, then I think it makes you gay as well.” Anger rose to the top in his torrent of emotions. “Jesus, you said the other day that you’d marry me. How many women have you said that to? You’ve probably slept with more men than I have.” Then he went quiet, realising what he’d said. He turned his head towards the window, exhausted and having no idea what would happen next.

He felt Bodie’s hand touch his, but didn’t turn. Bodie said softly, “I feel the same way about you, but I don’t see that it makes us gay. It just shows how special it is between us. I don’t think it counts as ... another affair. I mean, I don’t believe that people are made for each other but ... The way we met .... everything ... It had to happen. It’s different from everything.”

Doyle was impatient with this. He’d gone beyond this stage months ago. “Yeah, it’s been bizarre, but we’re not living in a vacuum, even though you pretend we are. It’s connected to other things. I can’t ignore what you’ve taught me about what it’s like to make love with a man. I have started to notice other men ...” At the indrawn breath he finally looked round. “... though only to think, ‘He’s not as beautiful as Bodie.’ Why on earth would I want anyone else? I can barely cope with you.”

Bodie had very clear ideas about why Doyle would want someone else. He knew he should just quietly agree with Ray, and try and come up with a convincing argument against clubbing. But insecurity can be its own worst enemy.

“Who have you been noticing? Someone in the shooting team? One of the lads?”

Doyle snatched his hand away. “Oh, give it a break, for Christ’s sake. If you don’t fucking stop this, I’ll go out and give you something worth being jealous about.”

Eventually Bodie closed his mouth. Doyle went to get himself some more brandy. When he sat down again it was in the armchair, on the other side of the small table. His anger had turned ice-cold. He looked at the other man, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

“I’m sorry.”

“You say that a lot, but you don’t get any better. In fact, I think you get worse. I’m being far too good to you. I’ve backed down Christ-knows-how-many times, and you don’t even notice. I want to show people how proud I am of you, of us, and you accuse me of fucking around. What do I do? Do I break your jaw like you deserve? No. I explain that you’ve changed my view of sex so much that I know I’m gay, and you still accuse me of fucking around.

“And for some reason I don’t chuck you out of the door. Incredible. I think this must be one of those abusive relationships that Ruth’s reading up on.

“And don’t start crying; it’s not going to work again.”

He’d been unable to resist that, though he regretted it immediately, and stopped his tirade. Bodie’s accusations had hurt terribly and he’d wanted to return that hurt. But that had been too much.

Bodie got up and left the room. Doyle didn’t watch him, thought he might be going home. But there was the sound of water running in the kitchen, and a few minutes later Bodie came back with a fresh pot of coffee. He filled Doyle’s mug and then his own. But instead of sitting, he wandered to the other side of the room, to the bookcases, and ran his finger over the rows. Finally he came back, and stood by the window.

“I’m frightened of losing you.”

“I’d gathered that.”

“And I’m handling this very badly.”

“No argument there.”

“Will you give me another chance?”

“Looks like it,” was the dry response. “But I can’t cope with many more scenes like this, Bodie. Something’s got to change. You’re a great one for passionate declarations, but you’ve got a lot to learn about give and take in a relationship. It’d be nice if you’d just do what I ask every once in a while.”

Bodie swallowed. “I can’t go out clubbing, Ray. It really frightens me.”

“But ... why?”

“I can’t explain. It frightens me like ... being fucked frightens me. I know it’s not rational, but ... I just can’t do it.”

Doyle frowned. He understood why Bodie was frightened of being fucked, but ... gay discos? It didn’t make sense. But you couldn’t mistake the look and sound of fear.

“OK. I won’t ask again.”

Bodie bent down, captured Doyle’s gesturing hand, and pressed his lips to it.

“As long as that’s not a passionate declaration.”

A shake of the head, then Bodie sank to the floor in front of the armchair, hand cupped around Doyle’s shin. Silence fell again.

Doyle was revising his ideas about arguments as catharsis. This time he didn’t feel that they were closer than ever. This time he’d definitely put Bodie on probation. He wasn’t yet planning his life after Bodie, or imagining what it would be like never to make love to him again, but he wasn’t going to take much more of this. Where was the pleasure? How long would it take for them to start hating one another?

They went to bed, and held each other lightly, but did not make love. Doyle was woken in the middle of the night by restless movements from Bodie. He came instantly alert, well-trained for this.

“Ginger.”

_Oh, no. The worst one of all._ He sat up, readying himself for the struggle of waking Bodie, but Bodie reached out for him, seeming quite calm, and he couldn’t. It seemed so long since he’d seen Bodie this happy. Gradually, he relaxed himself, as the hands stroked his hair, and it seemed that it was just an ordinary dream.

“That’s right. You know where you’re well off, don’t you, girl? You stay here and keep warm. Just keep your claws to yourself.” A chuckle stirred Doyle’s curls. “And don’t purr so loud, or I’ll never get to sleep.” Doyle raised his eyes in exasperation, but accepted his rôle, and soon Bodie quietened.

Bodie left the flat with him in the morning, and as they walked to their cars they made arrangements for getting to the range in the evening. Doyle was feeling more optimistic than he had the night before. Life just had it in for them at the moment. It couldn’t last. Alison would soon be out of the picture. Murphy couldn’t die again. Bodie just _had_ to be safe from IS now. Nothing had really changed between them, after all.

He was on his way to the lockers at the end of a dull shift, head down, starting to focus on the competition ahead.

“Ray, bloke left a message for you.” The Desk Sergeant handed him an envelope addressed in Bodie’s distinctive handwriting. Really, he’d rather not read it - it was not going to be good news.

> Dear Ray,
> 
> This is just to let you know I won’t be in touch for a while. A contact of mine was found dead this morning, and I’m going in deep undercover for as long as it takes to sort this out. I may be able to write, but I’ll have to wait for a few days to see how closely I’m being watched. Don’t worry. I’m an old hand at this.
> 
> I’m sorry I’ll miss seeing you beat the pants off the opposition (unless this is the quickest operation I’ve ever been involved in). I was looking forward to it.
> 
> I’ll miss you something rotten. CI5 has shown some bloody awful timing where we’re concerned, but this has got to be the pits, eh? I’m sorry about last night. God that sounds feeble. I’ve relived it about nine times this morning and I don’t know why you didn’t smash my face in. I’m ashamed of myself and I’m proud of you. We’ll work it out, I promise you.
> 
> I hope I’ll manage to talk to you before I go, but I can’t spend too much time tracking you down or I’d look conspicuous and I can’t afford that. There’ll be a copy of this at home in case your station screws up. I really want to see you. I hate disappearing like this. I know this note is gibberish. I want to tell you how much I love you so you’ll never forget me even if I’m away for months. But I’m scribbling this under the table in a briefing, and I have to go in two minutes.
> 
> I love you very much. Take care.
> 
> Bodie

Ruth had fallen into step with him as he trudged down the corridor. He only became aware of her as he was putting the letter back in the envelope.

“Bad news?”

“Uh?” He shrugged. “Oh, not really. Bodie was supposed to be coming to the competition this evening. But he can’t make it.”

“Hoping to make up for the ‘Frogger’, were you?”

“Something like that.”

They went off to their separate locker-rooms, both abstracted and thoughtful. Garrett had never seen Ray show so much emotion. Bodie’s opinion must mean a lot to him.

She waited for him in the corridor, having got changed in record time. “Could I come along instead? This evening, I mean.”

“You’ll be bored out of your mind.”

“I’m prepared to take the risk.”

He shrugged. “I’ll pick you up at seven, then.”

Bodie’s other letter was waiting on the mat. It was slightly shorter, and the hand-writing even more rushed. The frustration and urgency would have been clear even if it had been written in Arabic. He put them both in the box in the wardrobe, exhaling noisily as he surveyed the collection and compared it with Ann’s slim set of tasteful cards, long since burnt or rotted away.

As he expected, everyone at the competition assumed that Ruth was his girlfriend. She was on her best behaviour - which he now thought of as her “copper mode” - simultaneously alert and oblivious, impossible to offend. He wondered if Bodie would have done so well - “CI5 mode” was _not_ a social asset - but he missed him, nonetheless.

When it was his turn to perform, he forgot about them both - there was nothing else in the world except the target, and the metal in his hand, and his body created for this task alone. Yes, he did have some ground to regain, but he would do it, and more.

Doyle and Garrett headed back north after a quick half-pint. He’d never had time for post-mortems.

“Fancy some bread and cheese? That’s all I’ve got in.”

“Sounds good.” A pause. “D’you know where I can get a T-shirt printed up? Nothing fancy. Just, ‘He was my Tutor Constable, for God’s sake.’.”

Doyle laughed. “Thought it must be getting to you.”

“Oh, not _that_ much. I just don’t like people making assumptions about me. Though it does make it easier, sometimes. Cuts down the hassle. What about you?”

He shrugged. “Who needs another T-shirt?”

Was this the beginning of a proposition? It didn’t seem likely, and Ruth would come straight out with it, anyway. Or he supposed she would - what did _he_ know about her sex life? He wouldn’t ask. He didn’t these days.

* * * * *

They didn’t bother with the dining table, but ate their bread and cheese on the floor in front of the computer, while tapping away at the Sherlock Holmes adventure. When their hands were free they changed to “Frogger”, both working to displace Bodie from at least some of his slots on the Hall of Fame.

Doyle jumped when the phone rang, and abandoned his frog without a second’s thought. Some CI5 operations had to be quick, didn’t they?

It was Alison, a happily drunk Alison by the sound of it. She thanked him for the card, and said the other exams had been better, and she thought that the first lot had maybe not been so bad. She still had a few practicals over the next fortnight, but the heavy stuff was over.

He congratulated her. “Can I take you out for a meal sometime next week to celebrate?” He was not going to suggest the weekend; he wanted that free in case Bodie came back. They settled on Monday.

Ruth raised her eyebrows at him as he sat down. “Bodie?” His side of the conversation had been uninformative. She’d mentioned the only friend she knew of.

“Nah.” He paused. “He’s incommunicado at the moment. Probably at the other end of the country.”

“Oh.” No wonder he’d seemed fed up when he got that letter. “Does that happen often?”

“Too often,” and his grim tone ended that discussion.

* * * * *

When he got home after driving her back to the section house, the depression that had been waiting for a day finally swooped on him.

He hadn’t been calm after their argument - he’d been in a state of shock. Jealousy over _Alison_ was all very well, but that ... So unjust, and ... what sort of future was Bodie planning for them? How many years would it take for Bodie to admit that they were gay? Ten? Twenty? And would he ever be able to kiss him outside of their two flats?

A slap in the face, that’s what Bodie had given him. And all he’d wanted was to show Bodie how much he loved him. Several slaps. And had he defended himself? No, he’d just set himself up for more, talking about their fucking with an honesty that now made him cringe.

It was as if a carefully chosen and packaged gift had been destroyed before his eyes. Terrible. But what was more terrible was that he was prepared to forgive.

He did believe that Bodie loved him - loved him desperately. But did they have the same definition of love? It didn’t look like it. It didn’t feel like it.

It was ... not a human love, with no place in it for Raymond Doyle, the human being. What was he to Bodie? Half-god, to be knelt to and offered grand gestures of abasement. And half-slave, to be petted and indulged, but ultimately to be used. Exciting ... as a game, but as a way of life ...

He was losing himself. Bodie was taking all he had to offer, and what he was giving back ... well, at the moment it didn’t seem to be enough. He didn’t blame him, didn’t love him any less, but the fact was that their love didn’t make him feel good about himself, and he needed to be able to live with himself more than he needed to be able to live with Bodie.

_I’ll probably forget all of this when he comes back._ But that wasn’t reassuring, only showed the hold that Bodie had taken of him, body and mind. _I stop thinking when he’s near me, stop trusting what I feel._ What could that mean except that it wasn’t a sane and sustaining love?

Had things changed, or had he been wrong from the beginning when he’d thought they were so good for each other, that they were healing each other? It was a tragedy, whichever way you looked at it.

He lay sleepless, remembering all of the extremes of Bodie’s behaviour. The moments of passion seemed frightening now - still moving, but not to be welcomed, not to be savoured.

The angel glasses: he should have listened to Bodie in the first place - that really was how Bodie saw him. Poor Bodie. What was it like to have an angel screaming at you, swearing at you, mocking your tears? Or maybe at times like that Bodie didn’t see him as an angel. Maybe he saw him as ... Ginger the cat, a spitfire. That was probably it. After all, he’d dreamed about Ginger last night. He must have been reassuring himself that Ginger might scratch, but she always came back for a tickle under the chin, or a fresh tin of Whiskas.

The more Doyle thought about it, the more it made sense, and the more he despaired of Bodie’s changing. If Bodie could always take refuge in one of these two opposing views of his lover, would he ever move into the middle?

_Does he even understand what I’m talking about when I ask him to change? I don’t think so. Nothing’s got better since Murphy died._

But what example did Bodie have to go on? _Well ... me._ Could that be enough, though? Could anyone _really_ change this late in life?

Not blaming him. No. He’d never had a chance. Had done well to get this far. _But there are limits. Circuits soldered in our heads._

In the end he reached for the sleeping pills again.

* * * * *

Bodie wasn’t back by the time Doyle’s weekly leave came round, and there had been no post, not even junk mail. It was worse than when he was in Dover. Surely he could write - if he really wanted to.

What prompted him, whenever he sought contact? A momentary impulse, largely selfish. That scene in the kitchen was just the clearest sign of something that underlay everything. He was ... “Ginger” to Bodie, even if the nickname had been dropped. How much had Bodie ever thought of his cat’s wishes? How many times had he woken her from a deep sleep for the pleasure of making her purr, and then abandoned her after a few minutes? If you asked him, he’d just shrug, and say, “She enjoyed it,” not understanding the point of the question at all.

He thought of hitting the sleeping pills again, turning his brain off for the rest of the day. He deserved a rest. Other people didn’t spend their leave like this. Terry, for instance ... never had a doubt in his life, never rowed with Barbara over anything more complicated than shifts and shoe-shops. But ... using the pills like that, it was cowardice, it wasn’t for him.

It had been a week of thunderstorms, each day starting bright and then deteriorating as if to a timetable. He went for a run in the morning, taking care to be back before one, when the rain would start. Changing after his shower, he caught sight of the box on the shelf at the top of the wardrobe. Well, did he want to be sure about this, or didn’t he?

* * * * *

Maybe the letters were like having him back, having him in the room. Maybe that was destroying his judgement. But it didn’t make sense that a selfish impulse could prompt all this. Bodie missed him, as a human, as Ray Doyle. The letters were full of the need to be with him. Not a sinister line among them.

Maybe Doyle wasn’t the only one who went a bit crazy when they were together, whose feelings were so strong that they interfered with his thoughts. But the thoughts were there after all, recorded in the letters and notes throughout the past year.

They would be alright after all, with time, and with some self-control.

* * * * *

There was still no word from Bodie. The days dragged, and the nights were worse.

Doyle worried about him, knowing he was among killers. If ... anything happened, how would he find out? Who would think to tell him?

And ... _no one_ could be that far away from a post box for this long. He re-read the letters to conjure the comforting presence, but their effect lessened on each reading, the value cheapened by this current silence.

On Tuesday he was lying sleepless again, by now out of sleeping pills, wondering over and over how Bodie saw him, what Bodie had been thinking as he’d done this, or that. He kept on returning to that night in the kitchen, and became more and more ashamed of his own response.

He was losing himself. He remembered telling Bodie only a week ago that he loved being fucked by him. Losing himself - hell, he was giving himself away, and to someone who didn’t notice, because Bodie thought he already owned him.

His body wasn’t helping him in all this. For the first time, he felt very separate from it, not sure he trusted it, especially where Bodie was concerned. It didn’t understand the subtleties of the situation, didn’t appreciate how one-sided the relationship was, how dubious Bodie’s motivations were, that it might be a good idea to hold back.

It all came down to being fucked, of course. Was it silly that it seemed so important? How many times had he asked himself that? If it wasn’t important then it should be a trivial thing to stop doing it.

The thought startled him.

Yes. They _could_ stop.

Not for ever, but until they’d sorted things out between them, until he was surer of Bodie. It was an obstacle to teaching Bodie about give-and-take in relationships. He saw that now. He’d heard somewhere that not all gay couples fucked one another; some just ... well, did what he’d been doing to Bodie. It wasn’t essential. They’d just been thrown in at the deep end and hadn’t thought to climb out.

He smiled as he thought about an equal sex-life for the two of them. It was something he’d been dreaming of for months, but he’d assumed that it would occur when Bodie stopped having nightmares and they were both able to fuck one another. His thoughts had been blinkered by guilt.

When Bodie had first told him of the nightmares, he’d said something like, “I know you won’t want me to fuck you until they stop.” _I should have agreed - we’d probably have had a much easier year._

He stretched, delighted in his powers of lateral thinking, turned over, and fell asleep in minutes.

* * * * *

After that, he stopped the analysis of the three of them - himself, Bodie, and their relationship - and concentrated on the practical matter of how he was going to tell Bodie that he thought it would be better if they stopped fucking for a while. It wasn’t going to be easy. Bodie would probably think it was punishment, but he hoped he’d be able to explain it so that Bodie would see that it made sense for both of them.

The nature of his impatience changed, too. He stopped expecting a letter, having accepted that the silence meant that Bodie really was unable to write. His frustration now centred on Bodie’s return, not on any letter. The sooner he came back, the sooner they could start on the next stage of their relationship, the one that would last, keep them steady.

_God, let him come back tomorrow, or in time for our holiday. Don’t let it be months._

He was impatient with everything he did, at work or at play. It was an effort to keep himself busy, even to get a video out, or to go for a run. The only thing he seemed able to concentrate on was computer programming, and he was getting through Ruth’s book far too quickly.

On Monday, after shift, he was waiting for a program to load when the ‘phone rang. He ambled over - it was probably Alison, just out of her last practical.

“Hello.”

“Hi, Ray.”

“You’re back!” His voice was full of delight.

“Yeah, just now.”

“Can you come over? God, I was frightened you’d be away for months.”

“Yeah, me too.” He sounded restrained. “I’m sorry, I can’t come over today. I’ve just got into HQ, and it’s going to take me the rest of the day to make my report.” His voice softened. “I just wanted to let you know I was back. I’ve really missed you.”

“Me too.”

There was a short silence.

“Would you like to come round to my place tomorrow? I’ll cook.”

They set a time, and made their goodbyes.

Doyle was happy, but nervous. He had to get his speech ready. He’d rehearsed it many times, but hadn’t found the perfect script or performance yet. He didn’t get far with the programming that day; his mind was not on it.

* * * * *

Garrett noticed his improved mood. He’d been subdued and restless for about a week, but today he was almost chatty, seeking her out in the canteen, and boasting about his progress with the programming. She asked what he had planned for his holiday in a week’s time. Not a lot, by the sound of things.

Later, on their way out of the building, they picked up the conversation, which then turned to arcade games and rumours about fighter-pilot selection, and a subconscious association of ideas led her to say, “Have you heard from Bodie at all?” expecting the answer “No”.

“Yeah. He phoned yesterday, actually.”

Wow! He probably had no control over the way his face lit up, might not even be aware of it. “Bet he’s glad to be back. Well, see you tomorrow.”

* * * * *

Bodie was more than glad to be back. He’d been on-board ship for most of the time he’d been away, with little privacy, unable to write letters, let alone post them. Doyle understood immediately, but didn’t interrupt the lengthy apology.

“What have _you_ been doing?”

A dispirited shrug. “Missing you mostly. Learning the computer. Nothing much.” It depressed him just to remember. Everything was going to be OK now, though. He just had to decide on the best time to tell Bodie what he’d been thinking. Not before the food, anyway.

With his left hand steadying the coffee mug on his knee, he curved his right around Bodie’s thigh, and gave a quick squeeze, meant to convey reassurance combined with a sense of purpose.

“Bodie?” Quiet and serious. “I’ve been thinking. While you were away, that is.”

Bodie turned round, eyes widened in apprehension.

A smile, and another squeeze. “Nothing drastic, but ...” A deep breath. “I think one of the problems between us has been the ... sexual inequality.” He got impatient with his own euphemism. “I mean the fact that you fuck me, but I can’t fuck you.”

Bodie went very still, as if listening for something elsewhere in the building. “You want to try again?” He swallowed. “Well, I -“

“No, not that. It’s not the answer. You know the risks. But there’s another way, with no risk at all.”

A frown of total puzzlement.

“It just came to me the other day. We stop fucking. Just for a while.”

Bodie looked stunned. “You want to finish it?”

“No, that wasn’t what I meant. Bad choice of words. The sex is fine. But no fucking. We should only do ... what we can _both_ do. I really think it’ll make things easier. You have to admit things haven’t been good recently. We have to sort _something_ out.”

No reply, not even a nod.

“D’you think I’m suggesting this to punish you?”

A shrug.

“I’m not, you know. It’s to help _me_ , not to change you. Look, we’ve both got our insecurities about each other ... about ourselves, too, and they’re not doing us any good. You’re worried that I’ll find someone else ... that I’m looking for someone else, and you ... panic, and really piss me off. And I worry about the way you see me, because of the way we started and ... some things you’ve done.

“You know, I don’t doubt that you love me, but sometimes - when I’m feeling low, when you’re away and I haven’t heard from you for days - sometimes I wonder if I can accept your love and keep my self-respect.”

“I - just want to make you happy.”

“I know. And you do better than anyone else ever has. What’s behind this is _not your fault_. It’s just the way things have turned out. Like - it’s not your fault we started out with you fucking me and buying me. It’s not your fault you identify me with a cat. It’s not your fault you can’t let me fuck you. And it’s not your fault you’ve got a job that puts you through hell sometimes and takes you away for weeks on end. Not your fault, any of it.

“But late at night when you’re away, I lie in bed and convince myself that you see me as a slave, or an animal, or a Victorian angel. Anything except me, Ray Doyle. And your words aren’t enough to convince me that I’m being stupid.

“We need to even things up. For a while, anyway. Until I’m sure of you. And I think this is the way to do it.” He could think of nothing more to say.

There was a long silence. Doyle drank his coffee.

“I thought you said you liked it when I fucked you.”

_Oh, Bodie. Listen to me, please._ “No, I said I loved it. It may be part of the problem, that I love it so much it makes me forget everything else for a while. And that frightens me. You’ve done nothing wrong in bed. You’re wonderful. I fancy you like crazy, get all hot and bothered just thinking about you. But you must admit we’ve got problems?”

Finally, a nod.

“Well, I think this will help. It will make me more secure, and I’ll stop hassling you about things you’re not prepared to do. And I think ... it’ll be like a new start for us. And if there’s anything I can do to make _you_ feel more secure, tell me, and we’ll work it out.”

Bodie looked at Doyle’s open, hopeful face, and just nodded, forcing a brave smile. He couldn’t tell Ray the truth, which was that their wishes were in conflict, and that what he needed to feel secure was to be allowed to fuck him again. This felt like an easing apart, the beginning of the end, and all Doyle’s words could not reassure him. But to say that would only hasten it, and he could never knowingly do that.

Doyle put his arm around Bodie and drew him close. Bodie was still looking sad and withdrawn, but he’d expected that, really, hadn’t thought he’d agree instantly and say, “I’d been thinking that myself but didn’t know how to suggest it.” At least he hadn’t got angry, hadn’t made any accusations. It could have been a lot worse.

Softly, “It’ll be fine. There’s plenty we can still do. See it as a challenge.”

Bodie leant against Ray, remembered his coffee, and drank it slowly. “Well, things _have_ been rough. You could be right. We do need to start over.”

* * * * *

Doyle fell asleep quickly that night, entirely satisfied.

Bodie lay awake, holding Ray, knowing this could be one of their last nights. Not that he thought that Ray was consciously planning to leave him. No, Ray seemed content, seemed to be planning for a future for the two of them. But this was a good time, and Bodie knew enough of his own stupidity and selfishness to be sure that it wouldn’t last forever. Now Ray would find it easier to decide during the next argument that it would be their last. If the ties between them were reduced, it would take less effort to cut them all through.

He could not remember ever feeling so frightened and helpless. They would argue again - he couldn’t keep Ray happy for long - and then he would be left with himself, and he would hate himself more than ever. He slept eventually, and dreamt of Ginger, but he remembered nothing in the morning.

As day followed day, and their holiday grew closer, Doyle became more and more sure that his idea was going to work. He felt calmer already, and knew he was moving steadily away from the dangerous peaks of passion and rage. OK, the sex _wasn’t_ as exciting, but it seemed a small price to pay for peace of mind and control of mood. Bodie seemed happy too - he said he was, and his love-making was just what Doyle had hoped for, so everything was very promising.

On Thursday they met in town. Bodie was half an hour late arriving at the pub, which meant that he was exactly on time as far as Doyle was concerned. He apologised more than usual, which suggested to Doyle that something had happened that made him particularly aware that he was late, so when he came back with their drinks Doyle immediately asked how his day had been.

Bodie frowned and shook his head, not in denial, but as an expression of how bad it had been. “We lost Middleton.”

“Who?”

“Don’t think you’ve met him. Very quiet bloke. Partnered with Sutcliffe. They’d been working for months on a drugs case, apparently. Anyway, it all came to a head today, and there was a car chase, and he got shot. Sutcliffe gave up the chase - wasn’t much he could do if he caught them, not with Middleton out of action - and got him to hospital. That was this morning. He got through surgery, but I’ve just heard ...” He shook his head again.

“Did you know him well?”

“No one did, that I can make out. Except Sutcliffe, I suppose. I gave them both rifle training a few years ago, worked with them in group operations ...” He shrugged. “It’s a small squad. We all hover by the ‘phone if one of us is in hospital. Selfish interest, probably, but it gets us all.” He took a long mouthful of beer.

Doyle nodded, partly sorry for the unknown Middleton, partly pleased that Bodie had told him about it, partly worried by the closeness of death. It was less than a month since Murphy died. At one a month ... As Bodie had said, it was a small squad. “How many have you lost? This year?”

“Two.”

“Including Murph?”

Bodie nodded. They were silent for a while.

“When’s the funeral?”

“Tuesday, probably. I’ll have to drop out of that trip to the races.”

“West Norwood?”

“Yeah.”

They looked at one another, both wanting to touch, both wishing things were different.

“Let’s go home. I’m not in the mood for a film.”

Bodie nodded, and they drank up and left.

On the way home, Doyle felt a pang of guilt about the thoughts he was having, willing Bodie to age, to fail the tests that put him in the front line. Thirty five, Cowley had said at his interview, that was the limit for most agents. Back then he’d thought, _That’s no time. Hardly a career at all_. Now it felt like eternity, like a lethal obstacle course.

Before he could start his holiday with Bodie, he had to get through Friday’s date with Alison. They went clubbing again, and fortunately she’d lost her taste for slow-dancing now that the exams were over. On Saturday she behaved as if she was going to stay the whole weekend, much as she had the last time she was round. Doyle had expected this, and had told her early on Friday night that he had to go to a bike shop in Croydon before two on Saturday afternoon.

Bodie laughed when he heard this just after one that afternoon.

“Well, I _do_ have to get some spares... but, no, I wouldn’t get them from Croydon.”

“Is your bike actually on the road? Or is it falling to bits? All you ever seem to do is work on it.”

Doyle defended his machine, though he admitted that he rode less than he used to.

“Something else taking up my time, I guess,” he finished, looking significantly at his lover.

Bodie smirked at him, and they wrestled happily on the settee, in a holiday mood. When Bodie’s mouth was his own again, he said, “I was just thinking. We could go out for a ride sometime. If your pile of junk is up to it.”

Doyle’s eyebrows went up at the idea of Bodie riding pillion. “Yeah, why not?” Then he swore. “I haven’t got a spare helmet, though. I lost it in a move. It’s been years since I had a passenger.”

It was Bodie’s turn to look surprised. “I’ve got my own helmet. Got my own bike. I was thinking of taking both bikes out.”

“Oh.” It had been a nice fantasy while it lasted. “Where is it? You don’t keep it in the road, do you?”

“This place has got a garage in the basement. Have you never noticed my leathers?”

Doyle shook his head. Bodie took him down to the basement to look at the machine, and they decided to ride to Kent on Wednesday. Doyle was pleased that they’d found one more thing that they could do together, but he wondered how many other aspects of himself Bodie was hiding. No, that was unfair. He shouldn’t blame Bodie just because his detective’s pride was hurt.

In the evening they went to a play, an Alan Ayckbourn comedy in the West End. Bodie had got the tickets on Petrie’s recommendation. He didn’t admit to Doyle that it was only the fourth time he’d been to the theatre: there’d been a couple of pantomimes when he was a kid, and “The Mousetrap” when he’d just arrived in London and thought it was the thing to see. He was surprised at how good “Absurd Person Singular” was. In fact it was better than most films he’d seen recently. Maybe he was finally becoming civilised.

Afterwards they went for a drink, and then lingered over a meal in a late-night restaurant in Chinatown. They walked back to Bodie’s along a deserted Oxford Street. As they window-shopped in Selfridges, Doyle said, “I think this is going to be a good holiday,” and Bodie smiled, and said, “Let’s go home. I want to kiss you.” They went home.

As far as Doyle was concerned, the next few days were equally good, a taste of how things could be when they were living together full-time.

They spent most of Sunday at the sports’ club, and Monday going round the museums in South Kensington; Bodie was as delighted with the Children’s Gallery in the Science Museum as Doyle had known he would be, and insisted on trying everything.

Middleton’s funeral was on Tuesday morning. Doyle saw Bodie off with a coffee, and had a drink ready for him when he came back. After that, Middleton was never mentioned again. They took some beer and food to Hyde Park, and lay in the sun. Doyle read a book of Victorian horror stories that Terry had mentioned months ago. Bodie just watched the other park-users, and listened to Doyle, who was enjoying the book and wanted to share it.

Bodie was happy, but he knew it couldn’t last. Every night he lay awake while Ray slept, listing his faults and his crimes, thinking of the many ways in which Ray could find out about them. He was still trying to correct the faults, but he knew there wasn’t enough time. The last few days had been so good, he knew the end must be close. He knew the way God worked, showing him Ray’s perfection, showing him how necessary Ray was to him.

Soon it would all be over. Unless he could find a way of getting Ray back. He dozed off for a few minutes in the park, and when he woke, and lifted his head from his arms and looked up, Doyle was smiling down at him, desire clear in his eyes.

He knew then what he could do, something that could satisfy Ray’s need for equality, but make them even closer - so close nothing could force them apart.

But he would need time to prepare, time to control his terror. And time to decide how to deal with Ray, how to persuade him to try again. But he knew he could handle it. For something this important he could handle anything.

They stayed in the park until Doyle had finished his book, then headed home for a quiet night in front of the TV. Doyle had brought his VCR over, and insisted on carrying on the horror theme with “Psycho” and “Alien”. They turned the lights out and huddled at one end of the settee, drinking the last bottle of Harrods’ claret.

They went to bed, shaken by the films which they’d found completely absorbing, but laughing it off by mucking around in the shower, and miming “that scene” from “Alien” with the aid of a hand shoved under a jumper and dramatic gagging noises. Once under the protection of the duvet they relaxed, exchanging kisses stored up all afternoon and evening.

“This is the best holiday I can remember, Bodie. Better even than the trips to France with my mum and dad. You are just _so_ much _fun_. We’re great together, you know. I think if we’d worked together we’d have been bloody amazing. A CI5 legend.”

Bodie smiled. “Cowley would never cope with us. You’re not reconsidering, are you?”

“No. Just dreaming. It’s best like this.”

“It’s great like this,” agreed Bodie, and then he moved to fasten his mouth on the nearest nipple.

Doyle was content to watch his lover at work on him. You’d have thought that after all this time they might be getting bored with one another, that his body would think, “I’ve seen all this before”. But acquaintance simply made every touch more valued. He was delighted with their recent love-making, and with Bodie’s behaviour. He felt he could survive a month-long separation without a twinge of doubt, or a single sleepless night. He could take even a few screaming rows in his stride - every couple had difficult moments.

He’d found he was missing being fucked, but not desperately. The sight of Bodie’s erection caused a tingling in his arse, but so far he could ignore it, and he knew he should. He felt they would need another month or so without penetration to get the full benefit. After that he’d reconsider. God, it would be wonderful when they started again. It would make them both even happier.

He moaned in luxurious pleasure as Bodie’s mouth closed on him, but he wanted them to come together, or as close as they could manage. He said so, and Bodie lay back, and Doyle soon had him as urgent as himself. They sucked one another, taking their time. It was very like their first time in England, which must be ... what? ... about a year ago. Doyle couldn’t remember the date, but he thought it might be another anniversary for them. It had been an eventful year.

* * * * *

Doyle found the trip to Kent rather strange. Bodie looked very different in his leathers and helmet - a stranger, almost. The strangeness lessened during the day, but did not disappear. Maybe Bodie was feeling the same about him? It was a relief to get back to Bodie’s flat and remove the layers that had separated them.

On Thursday the weather changed and it rained for most of the day. They went back to the restaurant in Chinatown where they’d discovered the little dumplings on the trolleys and pigged themselves again.

In the afternoon they went to the Tate Gallery; Doyle persuaded Bodie by telling him he could see the original of his Christmas present. Afterwards he wasn’t sure it had been a good idea. Bodie had seemed uncomfortable, admiring a few paintings but uncertain about giving his opinion, and deferring to Doyle throughout. Doyle had never intended to show off his knowledge of art, which was very limited anyway - he was quite happily a member of the “I don’t know much about art, but I know what I like” school. Bodie didn’t realise that, though. In front of an Ernst, he asked, “Where did you learn about all this stuff? I thought you left school at sixteen.”

“I did. I went out with an art student years ago. She tried to educate me, but soon gave up in disgust. I really don’t know very much, Bodie.”

Bodie didn’t look as if he believed that. “I don’t know anything.”

“Well, why should you? One person can’t know everything. You’ve got skills and experience in areas that this bunch have never even heard of.” He gestured at the sparsely populated room.

His reassurance was useless. Bodie looked away and muttered, “And wouldn’t want to.”

Doyle checked that no one was watching them, and reached out to hold Bodie’s arm. He said quietly, “We can go if you want.”

Bodie looked at him and shook his head. “Come on, educate me.”

They stayed for another hour after that. Doyle pointed out a couple of impressionist paintings that he recognised from Alison’s room. He thought they were OK as elements in interior design, but otherwise no more than pleasant. He was more impressed by one of Ruth’s favourites, an enormous abstract canvas that held nothing but three diagonal sweeps of pastel colours.

“She’s right,” he said, “it does make your eyes go funny. I don’t think I could live with it, though.”

“Why would you want to?”

“I wouldn’t. But she says that one of her ambitions is to own a house large enough to set this off. She’s gone on about it several times, but I didn’t know which one she was talking about.”

“Would they sell it to her?” Bodie asked seriously.

“No. But that doesn’t put her off. If it’s stolen one day, I’ll know where to look first.” He grinned at his lover, and they moved on.

* * * * *

It was still raining when they left the gallery, and they got a taxi back to Bodie’s, and settled in for the evening. Bodie cooked while Doyle lounged on the sofa. The policeman had offered to help, but had been ordered back to the sitting room with a promise that he would be allowed to wash up.

Bodie needed to be alone for a while, to get himself ready for the night ahead. He had decided that he couldn’t leave it any longer.

He didn’t believe a word of Doyle’s claims to be a Philistine; the man was brilliant, cultured, learning all the time. Look at the sort of women he liked - he’d nearly married a publisher, for God’s sake. How could he be satisfied with someone who hadn’t had a decent school report since he was nine, who didn’t have a single qualification, and couldn’t stand films with sub-titles? He couldn’t. Of course, he couldn’t. He was fascinated with Ruth; it was only a matter of time there.

Bodie only had one more thing to offer, and he wasn’t even sure if that would be enough.

When dinner was in the oven Bodie joined Doyle on the sofa. They worked together on the crossword, but it finally defeated them.

Bodie turned the tape over, refreshed their drinks, and sat down.

“You know you asked me to tell you when the nightmares stopped?” A flare of incandescent delight. Oh, yes. Ray would be easy to persuade.

“Are you sure?” Doyle had control over his face now, and was showing simply interest for a friend’s welfare, with little hint of his own hopes.

“I’m sure. They’ve petered out. At first they were every night, then every week, and now ... I haven’t had one since January.” He knew that wasn’t true, but Ray didn’t. “It’s over. And I’m starting to remember - _really_ remember - what it was like that time.” His voice deepened. “You know - that’s when I knew for sure that I was in love with you.” He leaned forward, hands grasping Doyle’s shoulders. “Please, Ray.” It was Doyle who moved the last few inches.

But Doyle regained control of himself eventually. “No, I - I don’t know if I can do it.”

“ _I_ know you can. Please. Now.”

“I don’t know if I’m ready. After so long - it’s such a risk. We’re doing so well as we are.”

“Ray, you’re _more_ than ready. Much, much more.” Bodie was unbuttoning his shirt, stroking his chest. Ray’s body would soon persuade Ray’s mind. “I shouldn’t have waited so long to be sure. It wasn’t fair to you, I know. I’m sorry. After you’ve been so patient for so long. You’ve been a saint. And it’s been so difficult for you, hasn’t it? Wanting it. I could tell. From the way you look at my arse, the way you touch it. Don’t deny that your hottest dreams are about spreading me open and watching yourself sink in to the hilt.”

Doyle gasped and closed his eyes. Bodie could feel his racing pulse.

“I want it too, Ray. So why are we waiting?” He kissed the panting mouth, aroused himself by the other’s helpless desire. After a while he took his hand from the hard nipples, and laid it lightly on the harder groin. Doyle jerked.

Bodie whispered against his mouth, “Now. Please, now,” and led him, unresisting, to the bedroom.

Once there, Doyle started to participate properly, an admission of the truth of Bodie’s words. He undressed him with great care and appreciation, kneeling finally to remove the Y-fronts, then staying there, rubbing his face against the cock that was dearer to him than his own, teasing it with breath and lips, while he stroked and squeezed Bodie’s buttocks, letting his fingers push into the crack.

When he touched the ring of muscle and felt Bodie bend forward and part his legs to help him, his excitement leapt, and his few doubts fled. Six months without a nightmare ... it must be over. And Bodie was wanting it so much. This was bliss. This would made everything all right, forever.

Bodie was just as happy. He fell back onto the bed, opened his legs wide, and grasped his own cock and balls - Ray liked to see that. Ray looked more like an angel than ever, though no church would house a picture of him as he was now. Still, he seemed to be shining with a more-than-human light, enraptured, ecstatic, as one who looks on heaven. For the first time, Bodie believed himself to be beautiful, believed that God would let them stay together - it would be a crime to destroy something so perfect.

Doyle stretched out on top of the big, strong body. Bodie’s lips seemed redder than usual, his mouth silken, inviting, a reminder of what was to come.

The mouth whispered, “The gel, Ray. No need to wait.”

When he turned back, Bodie was lying on his stomach, presenting himself. It was almost too much. He closed his eyes, and breathed deeply, and eventually felt able to continue.

He pressed his index finger in, loving everything about the experience. Bodie was as hot as he was, cursing and urging in the same breath. He found the prostate and rubbed, but Bodie soon begged him to stop, gasping into the pillow, “In me ... please ... fuck me ... hurry.”

He quickly spread more gel into him, and then onto himself, and got into position. He pressed in slowly, watching every moment, taking it carefully so as not to overload his frantic nerves. It was even better than the last time. It was perfection.

When he was all the way in, and his balls were pressed tight against Bodie’s thighs, he closed his eyes, and knew that he’d come home. With eyes still closed, he stretched out along the strong back and buried his face in the curve of Bodie’s neck, murmuring softly and incoherently. His cock and Bodie’s arse were having their own conversation, conducted in pulses of blood and muscular contractions. He stilled, and listened to it for a while.

Underneath him, Bodie was breathing brokenly, and he felt his selfishness. Bodie’s prostate must be in an agony of anticipation, waiting for the hard strokes that it had been made for. He kissed the smooth skin, opened his eyes, and raised himself to finish it for them both.

It took him a second to understand what he was seeing. Why was the pillow red? He bent his head to ask Bodie, and saw the hand clamped in the mouth, and the blood running over the knuckles.

Bodie’s eyes were open, staring at nothing. He was unmistakeably in shock.

Doyle’s erection died, painfully. He pulled out, and it seemed to take forever, and then his cock fell against his legs, slick and flaccid, slug-like. He swallowed a scream, and fought against the desire to cut the disgusting thing off. Minutes later he stumbled to the bathroom, and washed, though touching himself made him feel sick. He put Bodie’s dressing-gown on.

Back in the bedroom, Bodie hadn’t moved, was still stretched out like a sacrifice. Doyle looked at him once, then bent to gather up his clothes, went into the sitting room, and got dressed. It was better, with his body safely contained.

He sat for a while. The tape was still playing. Traffic noises reached him. A police siren, passing just below. _I’m up here. I’m the one you’re looking for. Come up, and take me away._ No noise at all from the bedroom. Did Bodie not even realise that it was over? He was waiting for him - willing him - to start crying and struggling. Then ... he’d know where they stood, and Bodie always stopped crying eventually. This frozen silence was something new and terrible, and he didn’t think he could cope with it at all.

Eventually he returned to the bathroom and found the first-aid kit. He knelt on the bed, eased Bodie’s mouth open, and withdrew the injured hand. It was better than he’d imagined; in his panic he’d overestimated the amount of blood. The teethmarks were clearly-defined, but he was sure they’d hit nothing that wouldn’t heal. No need for stitches.

_A few days and you wouldn’t know it had happened. Oh. God._

Bodie didn’t even flinch as Doyle painted him with TCP, or show any other reaction as the wound was clumsily bound, and the hand laid on the stained pillow. _How’s he going to explain this at work? Another date with Chris?_

Was Bodie ever going to move? How could he bring him back? _Do I want to? Does he even deserve it?_

He sat on the bed, as far from Bodie as possible, and leant back, staring out of the window. There was a huge emptiness inside him, far larger than his body, and will and spirit and thought were draining into it and vanishing, leaving nothing, not even a memory.

Eventually, a smell of food reached the bedroom through the open double-doors. He levered himself off the bed without looking at Bodie. The pie could wait while he cooked some vegetables. He set the table, and when everything was ready he took Bodie’s dressing-gown, and went back into the bedroom.

Bodie’s eyes were closed now. There was a line of dried blood on his chin.

“Supper’s ready. Come and get something to eat.”

No response. Well, he hadn’t expected one. He sat on the edge of the bed.

“Come on. It’s been hours since you’ve eaten, and it’s not going to stay hot forever. You’ll regret it later if you don’t eat now. Slip into your dressing-gown and come through.”

Nothing.

“Well, I’m hungry and I’m not going to wait for you. I’ll leave your dressing gown here.”

He wasn’t hungry, just sat at the table with his head propped on one hand, and pushed the food around his plate. The idea of eating it made him feel sick.

There were rustling sounds from the bedroom, then dragging footsteps. Bodie sat down, head bowed.

Doyle got up and served him, and thought he heard, “Thanks.”

Bodie picked at his food, clumsy with only one hand. He looked pitiful.

“Do you want a drink?” Very quietly.

Bodie cleared his throat. “Orange juice. Please.”

Doyle sipped from his own glass, and watched as Bodie put away the meal very slowly. It must have gone cold long before the end. Finally he finished, pushed the plate away, and looked up. He met Doyle’s eyes for a second, then looked away.

“When did you _really_ last have a nightmare?”

Bodie closed his eyes. “Last month.” Doyle could barely hear him.

“Why did you lie to me?”

“So that you’d agree to try again. I thought it would be OK. I wanted it. I really wanted it.”

Doyle nodded slightly, and kept on doing it, finding the movement comforting. He didn’t know what else to say.

* * * * *

It was Bodie who spoke next. “Do you want a coffee?”

Doyle nodded, though he didn’t want anything, except not to have to experience this. If only it could be undone, or months later, when he’d stopped caring.

Bodie took away the plates and glasses, and clattered around in the kitchen. Doyle looked out of the window again. It had stopped raining, and the weak evening sun was shining into the room.

“Let’s sit down.” Doyle followed across the room, but didn’t take the space Bodie left for him on the settee. He picked up his mug and sat on the floor by the fire, the edge of the coffee table pressing against his arm.

There was a long silence.

“I was raped.”

Doyle looked up at him, blinking. He’d imagined Bodie telling him this many times, had looked forward to it as the end of their troubles. Could he ever have guessed that it would be like this? He opened his mouth to say, “I know,” but Bodie spoke first.

“Well, you must have guessed that it was something like that. I was sixteen. In Angola. I was a mercenary, you see. There were two of them. They were famous for going after new blood, and I - One night they got me away from the camp.” He took a mouthful of coffee.

“What did you do?”

“I was sixteen. I didn’t know anyone. What could I do? I went back to camp with them. No point in complaining. Medic stopped me bleeding. I was more careful after that.” More coffee. “I killed them. Much later.” He was nodding to himself at the memories. “No one knew. Except me. And them. We were losing so many at that time I don’t think anyone else even noticed they were gone.”

Doyle swallowed hard. He knew he couldn’t cope with this. He was frightened of Bodie now, frightened of the depths of pain inside him. Not that he was in any danger himself - Bodie was incapable of hurting him, he knew that. But how could you deal with someone like this?

And why the story about Angola? It must be true, but it wasn’t the explanation for the nightmares. _Why is Bodie fobbing me off with it? To stop me asking for the real story?_

Jesus, he’d been so naive. To think he could cure him, make up for a lifetime of horrors with a few good nights in bed. But why couldn’t life _be_ like that? Didn’t love count for anything? Especially theirs. What about the heat-trace? Why had they been led to each other at all, if it was far, far too late, if this was how it ended? What was the point in such cruelty?

Finally he stopped trying to cope. He turned away, towards the fire, and let his tears run down his cheeks and drop from his nose and chin into his coffee. He didn’t want Bodie to see, wanted to be left alone with the death of his dreams.

But Bodie was aware of the outside world again. He was an expert at dealing with aspects of life that others ignored, and his defences were operating now. William was not fit to be seen, never had been, and he’d crawled away, and Bodie had taken charge. Bodie had decided some time ago to tell Ray about Angola, and now he had, and he felt better for it. He had control over his life, over his secrets; he would go on.

He looked across at Ray and saw the shaking back, and knew that his plan had gone badly wrong. He hadn’t meant for this to happen, had thought that it would be alright, that he would be able to pretend to Ray that he was enjoying it, even if he wasn’t.

He’d been wrong. The terror went too deep. His nerves remembered everything, magnified every similarity. He’d only managed to keep in place and keep quiet, though he’d soon forgotten why that was important.

They had to get over this now. He had to comfort Ray, let him know that everything was alright. Seeing Ray cry was far worse than anything that had happened in the bedroom.

He got up, moved the coffee table back a few inches, and knelt on the carpet. Doyle’s tears were quiet, exhausted, the tracks seeming clear and distinct. His eyes were closed. Bodie reached out to put an arm around his shoulders.

“Don’t touch me.” Very quiet. Not one of Ray’s tempers that would be over soon.

 Bodie drew his arm back. “You hate me.” Nearly as calm.

“No.” Eyes still closed, Doyle raised his mug and took a mouthful of luke-warm, salty coffee.

“You think I’m disgusting.”

“No.”

“Why won’t you let me touch you? I want to help.”

Doyle clutched his mug closer, and hunched over it even more.

“Tell me, Ray, please.”

Doyle’s tears renewed, and Bodie knelt by him, helpless. After a few minutes he got up to get them both a drink, and placed Doyle’s by his side. A while later, Doyle put down the mug and picked up the brandy. He warmed it in his hands, and eventually drank.

When he spoke, his voice was slightly unsteady, but it seemed the tears were over. “We can’t help each other. It’s far too late.”

“What do you mean?” Bodie didn’t understand this at all.

Doyle looked at him. “I can’t help you, Bodie. I thought I could, but ... you’re just too screwed up. I can’t cope with you.”

“You can,” urged Bodie. “You can. You’re doing a great job. We’ve got some problems, but we’ll sort them out. I promise you. We’ve been through worse, haven’t we?” He didn’t really know what he was saying, anything, really, to stop Doyle saying anything more.

Doyle shook his head. “No. There’s nothing worse than this. And it’s never going to get any better between us. I love you, more than I’ve ever loved anyone, but I can’t trust myself with you after this. I daren’t touch you. I’ll ... I’ll hurt myself if I try to touch you.”

Bodie dropped his eyes and found himself staring down at his thighs. His dressing gown was short and revealed his pale, scarred knees. To think that for a few seconds he had believed himself beautiful. “You don’t want me anymore,” he said quietly.

Doyle sighed. “I can’t. I can’t. It’s not because I’m disgusted or anything. You are beautiful ... the most beautiful person I know. Don’t forget that.” He swallowed and took some more brandy. “It’s me I’m disgusted with. I daren’t want you. I don’t think that anything good can come from us ... being close. It’s all so ... messy. There’s so much pain on both sides. Face it, Bodie.”

“But ... just the other day you were saying how much fun we were having. You seemed so happy. Surely that shows there’s something good between us. Don’t forget that. We mustn’t just throw all of that away. You’re in shock. We’re both in shock. We’ll get over the worst in a few days, and then we’ll work on having fun. Please, Ray.” The last words were said so low that Doyle barely heard them.

“It’s not going to be a few days.” He fell silent and closed his eyes again.

Bodie waited for several minutes for him to continue, and then decided he could wait no longer. “It’s finished then.” He was amazed at the steadiness of his voice. A second wave of shock, probably.

“I think so. Can you really think of any reason for carrying on? Do you really believe we’ll be happy? At the moment ...” He shook his head in what looked like exhaustion. “... I just want it to be over. I can’t take any more.”

They looked at one another.

Bodie said, “We love each other. We make each other happy most of the time. I think you’re forgetting how much.” He dropped his eyes again. “I don’t think I could bear it if I thought I’d never see you again.”

Doyle bit his lip. He was on the point of saying that that was a common feeling at the end of an affair - he’d had it himself and he’d borne it - but then he imagined the reality of what Bodie was talking about. Even now, when Bodie’s presence beside him made him cold with a sick desire, even now part of him was still planning for that future together. Never to see him again? To admit that they had failed both as lovers and as friends? The idea of the years to come with no Bodie at all in his life was a dull, wearying ache, that threatened only to grow.

“We don’t have to do anything as dramatic as that,” he said, aiming for a scathing tone, as if mocking Bodie’s taste for grand gestures. Then his tone softened, “We could try being friends. See how it goes. You are fun, you know. Most of our problems are with sex. We probably would be better off without it.”

Bodie looked up, met his eyes, and finally smiled. “Shall we see what’s on TV?”

They switched on at the beginning of a thriller. Doyle sat in an armchair and Bodie took the sofa. During the first set of commercials Bodie went to the kitchen to make more coffee and when he came back he re-filled their brandy glasses.

Doyle gestured at his glass. “You’d better not have too much of that. You’ve got to drive me home tonight.”

“You’re not staying?”

“No. Not tonight.”

“OK,” said Bodie matter-of-factly. “Are we still on for tomorrow?” Friday’s plan had been for a trip to Richmond (if the weather was good) or a tour of the amusement arcades in the West End (if the weather was bad) followed by a good, long meal (at Bodie’s insistence) and another late-night horror thing at the Scala.

“Sure. I’ll come over around ten.”

* * * * *

When the film was over, Bodie drove Doyle home. Before the policeman got out of the car, Bodie held out a keyring which held the keys to Doyle’s flat. “Do you want them back?”

Doyle hesitated. He had no strong desire to ban Bodie from his flat, but if Bodie wasn’t going to be staying the night any longer, then there was no need for him to have keys. What would Bodie think if he said he didn’t want them back? That he was just playing hard to get, and was planning to change his mind in a few days? Maybe. If he took them, that would certainly convince Bodie that he was serious.

“Thanks.” He didn’t look at Bodie’s face as he took the keys. “See you around ten tomorrow.”

Bodie drove off.

Doyle let himself in and stood in the hallway, not sure what to do next. He didn’t want to go to bed, but what would he do if he didn’t? Listen to music, watch a video, read? He couldn’t imagine doing any of those things, could hardly believe that they were his normal ways of passing the time. Finally he wandered into the sitting room and sat down.

He’d been here yesterday, just yesterday. He seemed separated from the person who had come here to fetch his bike and his gear by much more than a day. What a fool he’d been then. He’d thought that everything was working out.

_Why_ had Bodie done it? Had he _really_ thought it would be OK? Had he _really_ wanted it?

_I don’t know._

He should give up all attempts to understand Bodie, because he was only fooling himself. Bodie wasn’t living in London in June 1980; Bodie was living in his own private hell, and no one could visit him there. It was dangerous even to come within sight of the walls. And PC Ray Doyle had thought he could break down those walls and set Bodie free. What a fool. Stupid, arrogant copper, used to interfering with everybody’s lives.

_But ... was he lying all along when he said he wanted it?_

It was no good, he couldn’t stop asking himself. Trying to find an excuse for himself, probably. An excuse for both of them.

He got up to get himself a large scotch and sank back onto the settee. _He_ must _have thought it would be OK_. Why would Bodie deliberately put them through that, otherwise? What would be the point? None beyond extreme sadism - or masochism - and that wasn’t Bodie’s style.

_He_ did _want it. For a while._ The look on his face as he’d lain on the bed waiting ... Oh, yes, that had been real. Bodie just wasn’t that good an actor. He could hide things well enough, but he couldn’t pretend to something he didn’t feel. So he had wanted it.

_When did it go wrong for him, then? What did I do?_ He’d said, long ago, when Doyle had tried to put three fingers inside him, that it was a “stretching”, not pain. Doyle might describe it like that too, but for him it was pleasure. For Bodie the size and feel of a cock inside him was terror, a terror that banished every other thought or feeling, a terror that was rooted so deep that it could never be removed. The horrors of “Alien” or “Psycho” seemed trivial in comparison - a few seconds of pain, and then it was over. It would never be over for Bodie.

Doyle remembered again the nightmare in the desert and for the first time realised the extent of his own naivety and selfishness. He’d been shown then how bad it was, but he’d ignored it. Incredible, to think that he’d decided that the way to cure Bodie was to fuck him. He hadn’t been thinking of Bodie at all, not really. He’d done it for himself, for his own self-respect, for some masculine pride which insisted on compensation, and for some coppers’s vanity which insisted that he could solve any problems. He hadn’t thought at all.

But it had _worked_ , that first time in Brijah. Why had it worked? Was is just a sick joke? Were they chuckling still in heaven or in hell over that one? Maybe ... maybe it had been so long for Bodie that the terror had died back. Maybe. It had been a stupid thing to try, anyway. Stupid and selfish. “I can cure him with my love,” he’d been thinking. Sentimental delusion. It had had nothing to do with love.

He started to cry again, not quietly, but with his whole body, taken over by grief. It was as if he was six again, just realising that his mother would never come back, that he would never have someone of his own again.

The most perverse thing was that he cared for Bodie more than ever now, when he knew how truly unfit he was to give him care. Bodie had been damaged so badly, there ought to be nothing left. People got close to him, it seemed, only in order to tear a chunk of him away. But somehow Bodie had protected and preserved the part of himself that was capable of love and gentleness. That must have taken such strength and courage.

But it wasn’t enough for Raymond Doyle. He’d told Bodie that too. It was a miracle, but it wasn’t enough. Even in his misery and remorse he knew that he couldn’t change his mind about that.

They were fine in the realm of miracles, and super-human passion. It was in real life that they were a disaster. They’d both helped create this mess. Bodie with his angels and his cat. Doyle with his fantasies about a heat-trace.

If this _was_ planned for them, then it was cruel, cruel beyond belief. Whoever was behind it owed them. He knew what he’d ask. “Change things for Bodie. Undo everything. Make him whole.” He’d bargain if that was what they wanted. “I don’t ask for our time over again. Just his. Do what you want with me. He doesn’t even have to remember me.”

But that was another romantic fantasy. In reality they _would_ remember each other, but only with pain and regret, and finally they’d wish that they’d never met.

Eventually he ran out of tears, and out of thoughts. He went to the bedroom and undressed in the dark, keeping his Y-fronts on, wishing he would never have to be naked again. He washed in the dark, and fumbled to tell the difference between his toothbrush and Bodie’s.

Back in the bedroom, he stood by the bedside table, looking down at the alarm clock. Should he set it, so he’d be round at Bodie’s at ten? Did he want to go? No. Did he want to phone and tell him he wouldn’t be coming? No. Did he want to leave him waiting? No. He couldn’t make any more decisions where Bodie was concerned. Take the simplest path. See what happened. It would all be over soon enough. The dial gave enough light to let him set the alarm without turning the lamp on. He got some sleep, though it didn’t feel like it.

* * * * *

It was raining when the alarm went off. He lay in bed, listening to the wet, heavy drops on the window, looking at the patch of grey sky. Why were they meeting today? Because they were friends, because they had fun together. Wasn’t that what Bodie had said? Was it true? He supposed it was, but he couldn’t make it seem real. His bladder insisted that he get up.

Bodie looked as if he’d had a bad night too. They smiled uncertainly at each other in the doorway. Bodie made coffee and toast. Doyle felt little except a need to keep his distance. Bodie wanted a hug, wanted it with an intensity that seemed preposterous for something so childish and simple. He wanted Ray to hold him close and tell him that everything was all right. But it was obvious that nothing had changed since yesterday, and that made his need even greater.

All night he’d hoped that Ray might have changed his mind. It had happened before, and he’d been encouraged by the memory that Ray had said that “at the moment” he wanted it over. Didn’t that imply that at some other moment he would want to start again? He still believed that, but it was going to take longer, obviously. The longing was almost all he could think about; it was a fight not to plead. It was especially difficult because, at heart, he believed that Ray must be feeling the same longing, because the ties between them were so strong that what he felt, Ray must feel too. He believed this at the same time as he believed that he was repulsive and corrupt and unloveable, and that he had lost Ray completely. He could do nothing about the longing except wait, wait for Ray to start things, or to finish them completely.

“Do you still want to hit the arcades?”

Bodie shrugged. “Why not? Do you?”

“Sure. We can go to a film if we get fed up.”

Bodie felt a brief flare of warmth. Over the next days he would feel a similar flare at each sign that Ray wanted to be with him. They took the tube to Tottenham Court Road and spent hours and pounds searching the many arcades. It was good for the egos of both. Bodie did as well as ever at “Frogger”, they were evenly matched on the space-battle games, and Doyle was magnificent at those involving classical marksmanship.

They soon relaxed, and by the time they broke for a pub-lunch, they’d nearly recaptured the holiday mood despite occasional moments of awkwardness when they jostled one another as they wrestled with the controls. Bodie tried to convince himself that Ray wasn’t really pulling away from him. Still, it was better than either had expected. They _could_ be friends.

The rest of the day and the next few weeks confirmed that. This was possible because they were trying to ignore what had happened between them on Thursday, or what they’d been to one another for over a year. When they parted at night the sadness rushed in and stayed until they met again, so that their first minutes together were always strained. They did things they’d done when they were lovers, and Doyle remembered those times vividly, and felt a mixture of envy and pity for those two men, for their innocence and their ignorance. But he felt as strongly about Bodie now as he had then, though the need for physical distance was one of the strongest of the feelings.

After a while he realised that he didn’t want anyone to take Bodie’s place in his life, even when he got over his continuing sexual shock. He didn’t want another lover, and he didn’t want Bodie to find anyone else. The jealousy was as strong as ever, maybe stronger.

Was there ever a more complicated relationship? He would look across at Bodie, and feel a mixture that included tenderness and fear, affection and hopelessness. If there was desire, it was smothered in the confusion.

Bodie was alternately warmed and frozen. Every smile, every appointment kept was hope, and every night spent alone was despair. The longing continued whether they were together or apart. The nightly masturbation seemed completely necessary and completely useless - he tried hard not to think about Ray then. Afterwards he’d lie in bed, feeling his love for the man as a heavy, liquid presence inside his torso.


	11. Heat-Trace - Chapter 9

## Chapter 9

They both found it difficult going back to work, since they were noticeably subdued when they were apart.

Bodie produced a story about a promising dirty week in the Lake District ruined by Emily’s streaming cold and disabling cough which he’d then caught, and had only just recovered from. It might not have satisfied Murphy, had he been alive to hear it, but it was OK for Lucas and Taylor.

Garrett was the first to hear Doyle’s version, in the parade room on Tuesday night. “It was just a non-event really. I had a stinking cold when the weather was good, and when the cold cleared up it started pissing down. I got fed up with the inside of my flat, and I hate being ill on my own time.”

“Ah. You should have phoned me. I’d have come around and kept you company. Even cooked.”

Doyle frowned slightly. He wanted her to back off. For him, last week was still raw, and he didn’t want anyone there. It wasn’t rational, but it made him uncomfortable just to have Garrett talking about visiting him during that week, as if she could break through the barrier of time and fiction, and see him at his worst.

“I can’t see you as Florence Nightingale.” Unsmiling.

“Oh, it’s purely selfish.” She dropped her voice to a near-whisper. “I was desperate for some intelligent conversation.”

“You wouldn’t have got it from _me_. State I was in.”

“Oh, well, I wouldn’t have bothered then.”

If he didn’t want sympathy he wouldn’t get it. Why was he being so negative, though? Was he just in a thoroughly bad mood after a lousy holiday, or was he trying to warn her off? Impossible to guess. He gave so little away.

* * * * *

They were assigned to car patrol together. When the night had turned quiet, she told him about her own holiday plans which were currently for a week in Edinburgh during the festival in August, followed by a week’s scuba diving in Malta with her friend Cathy who lived in Kennington. He roused himself to ask sensible questions, and then caught up on news from the previous week.

The main news was that Terry West had finally got his transfer - he was going to west London in a few weeks to be a Scenes of Crimes Officer. Ruth didn’t know much about it, or about who would be the next radio operator. He’d have to ask Terry.

Ruth was better informed about the next item of news. “Oh, and we’ll be getting overtime on Saturday. We’ve been put on the Gay Pride March.”

“Oh.” Completely flat.

“I hope the weather’s good.” She grinned. “I’m really looking forward to it. I was hoping we’d get put on it, but of course you can’t ask. My brother said he might come down, but he doesn’t always make it. We probably wouldn’t spot each other anyway, but it would be fun. Raise a few eyebrows.”

Doyle wanted to tell her to shut up and leave him alone, but he realised that her remarks required some response. “I didn’t know you had a brother,” he said after a slight pause.

“Well, I don’t see much of him. I usually only see him when he’s between boyfriends and his time and his flat are his own.”

“Where does he live?”

“Rugby. He’s a design engineer with Rolls-Royce. I don’t think he likes it very much, but the pay’s great and he’s got himself a heavy mortgage. Bit dim really,” she muttered, with the superiority of one in a section house costing less than a fiver a week.

“He’s older than you, is he?”

“A couple of years, yeah. We used to be pretty close, but once he went off to university ...” She shrugged extravagantly, and decided to give it a rest. _She_ thought the idea of policing a march that her brother was on was pretty wacky, but obviously to an experienced police officer it was too boring for words. God, to be that cool.

Not long after: “Have _you_ got any brothers and sisters?”

He shook his head, smiling slightly in relief. “Nah. Well, I lost count of the number of foster brothers and sisters I had, but they were never around for very long. I never really got close to any of them.”

Garrett followed this up with undisguised interest, but that was fine because he didn’t mind talking about that aspect of his life. That was safe. He told her about the Arnolds, who’d looked after him from the ages of eight to sixteen, and started taking other children for brief periods from the time he was eleven. Dealing with these other children had been excellent training for policework - pub fights were a doddle after some of the tussles he’d seen over the odd wheel in the LEGO set.

After their meal break they didn’t talk so much. Garrett stared out of the window, thinking hard. Maybe she was leaping to conclusions. Maybe Ray was straight, solitary and shy; or maybe he was celibate, solitary and shy. But his behaviour made more sense if you assumed he was gay and hiding it as any sensible copper would.

* * * * *

On Saturday the weather was glorious, but that did nothing for Doyle’s depression. He didn’t usually mind doing the march. It depended on the mood of the marchers, of course, which in turn depended on the mood of the government and the media in the preceding months. With a favourable administration in County Hall, a holiday mood was expected. But Doyle felt low and apprehensive. He’d told Bodie he’d been assigned to a march, but hadn’t mentioned which one. If Bodie had guessed, he hadn’t let on. It was not a topic they could afford to discuss at that time.

He and Garrett were assigned to the back streets of Victoria. Garrett was definitely in a holiday mood which was dampened only slightly by the efforts of their colleagues to assure each other how heterosexual they were, or by Doyle’s obvious lack of enthusiasm. Doyle wanted to disown all of them, including Garrett. She was attracting attention which spilled over onto him, and that was the last thing he could cope with. He stood apart, apparently examining the building opposite, trying to blank his face and his mind, pretending he was somewhere else.

The front of the march reached them just before three. It looked like an enormous, chaotic party. People were marching in couples, or with groups of friends. Cans of drinks were passed around, whistles were blown. Doyle stared ahead, like most of his colleagues, trying not to look at the crowd. Traffic was passing slowly behind him. Occasionally a horn would toot in time with the whistles, or there would be a yell of support.

Once a voice said close behind him, “Bloody queers”, and he shivered.

After about twenty minutes he heard a faint sound of chanting from the back of the line. The chant was picked up swiftly by people in both directions, but he knew what it was going to be even before it reached him. He’d been expecting it and had prepared his face to show no reaction.

“2-4-6-8, is that copper really straight?”

It was an old favourite.

After a few rounds they got bored with it, but it would be back before the end of the day, he was sure. To his left he could hear what sounded like Ruth giggling quietly, and he breathed deeply as he controlled the urge to thump her. It was all a game to her. Everything was a game to her. He’d rather have Terry’s baffled silence, or Mike’s smirky boredom than this.

The parade of people seemed endless. This must be a record. Just past four, a yell to his left indicated that something was happening, and his head snapped round. A man was making his way with difficulty across the stream. Even before he called out, “Ruth!” Doyle knew it must be her brother. He had the same brown curls (longer than hers), the same compact, lively build, and similar eyes, though his were without her glint of devilment. Another man was following him, looking embarrassed but trying to hide it. The brother and sister greeted one another enthusiastically, and the reaction was everything that Ruth had hoped for. Doyle watched, since he couldn’t pretend to ignore this. Almost immediately she turned to him and smiled broadly, and made a gesture of her head summoning him. He obeyed.

She introduced him to her brother Dave as, “Ray Doyle, the one who’s been keeping me sane,” and the two men looked at one another and nodded. She then chatted with her brother for a few minutes, asking how long he was staying in London, and whether they’d have a chance for a drink. They wouldn’t, as he and Paul were meeting some friends for some intensive clubbing. They made vague plans for a weekend in Rugby sometime during the summer, and then the two men drifted back into the crowd, holding hands, and laughing with the people around them. Doyle watched them until they turned the corner and were out of sight.

He felt dizzy. Silly, wasn’t it, to be so affected by the sight of two men holding hands? And to feel such pain.

Ruth was chuckling to herself.

“You happy now?”

“Yeah,” she replied, deep and drawn out.

“The station is not going to forget this.” He was very serious.

“Good. It could do with some shaking up.”

“Are you the best person to do it though? There’s a limit to how difficult you need to make things for yourself.”

She shrugged, unimpressed, and ignored him until the end of the march.

They went back to the station to change. Those who hadn’t actually seen Garrett and her brother heard about it very quickly, and no one seemed to view it as she did, as a great piece of public relations. Some of the hassle was standard winding up, and some was more vicious, and Doyle found himself forced to deflect some of it lest Garrett lose her temper and commit a disciplinary offence.

After ten minutes the argument showed no signs of cooling, and Doyle decided he had to get them out of there, especially when Garrett started talking about “one in ten”. He knew what would come next and he couldn’t afford to be involved in it.

He looked at his watch, and then tapped her on the shoulder and said, “Look, I’ve got to go. If you want that lift, you’ll have to come now.”

She blinked at him and opened her mouth, but stopped, looked at him carefully, and then nodded. “Right. I’m ready.”

He drove them to his flat and parked outside. They hadn’t spoken during the short journey.

“Why don’t you go to a film?” he said. “Take your mind of things. Calm yourself down before tonight.”

“You think I should just ignore them? Let them stay ignorant?”

“They were born that way. You won’t change things. If you try to fight like this, you’ll go off the rails and get the sack. I’ve seen it happen before. The force is like a glacier: it does change, but it’s very slow, and one person can’t move it along.”

She scowled at him. “I’d no idea you were so bloody conservative.”

“You want to change things on a big scale, go into politics. You’re a copper, and you’ll have to accept that you’re working at the lowest level. You can only help one person at a time. If you can’t stand it, get out.” His voice was harsh, and they glared at one another.

She reached down for her bag, and turned to open the door. Doyle had a brief, violent discussion with himself. He was thoroughly pissed off with her, and frightened that if they continued talking she might confront him about his attitude to gays, but he also felt sorry for her. She was a decent woman, if irritatingly naive about some things, and he didn’t want her to face the section house feeling totally alone and friendless.

“Oh, sod it. Come up for a beer. We both need to unwind.”

She turned back to look at him, and after a while they smiled at one another.

* * * * *

After she’d gone, he opened another beer, and slumped on the settee, exhausted. Jesus, how did double-agents survive?

He was still feeling depressed, but now it was a turbulent depression, not the morning’s cold calm. Yet he felt numb, and distanced, as if his confused emotions were a colony of ants in a zoo, twitching and chattering on the other side of a pane of glass. Was that envy there? And there a vision of being of the march with Bodie, feeling the grip of his hand, being surrounded by friends who wished them well?

But they weren’t even lovers any more, by his choice. All they had was a strange, awkward friendship, and memories that brought pain whether they were good or bad.

No more thinking, please. No more thinking. Let it stop. Let it be over.

The phone rang. He shook his head to clear it and looked at his watch. It was half past six. He was supposed to be going to Bodie’s for a quick meal at seven. The thought of seeing him brought warmth, but in his depression it felt unnatural - a glow coaxed from the embers of a dying fire. Best to stamp it out and move on? He sighed and picked up the phone.

The sound of Bodie’s voice increased the warmth and made him smile, and the ants’ motions became a frantic blur. But Bodie was calling to cancel, having been called in to cover for a sick agent on guard duty. He said he’d ‘phoned earlier, when Doyle must still have been at the march. Doyle accepted his apologies as he had many times before.

“Are you going to be OK for tomorrow? Or is this thing all weekend?” They had planned to go to the sports club for squash and a late Sunday lunch.

“Nah. Just this evening. I’ll pick you up at midday tomorrow, OK?”

* * * * *

An evening to fill. All time seemed like that at the moment, something empty, to be filled. He could go to a film. That had been his advice to Ruth: a film to take her mind off it. No. He couldn’t face going into town on his own, surrounded by people laughing and talking. It would be like the march. He needed to get away from people, away from all those feelings; the last thing he needed was to pay to see a story about other people’s feelings.

No stories. No emotions. What could he do? He looked around his sitting room and saw the computer. Of course. He put a “Best of Bach” tape on, got another drink, and set to work. But what would he do when he finished the book? Were there more advanced courses? He needed to find a project.

That night Garrett sought him out in the canteen and told him about the film she’d seen. She hadn’t been back to the section house yet. Doyle expected to see her looking very grim on Sunday night, and he was right - she looked like someone settling in for a siege.

* * * * *

On Monday, the first day of Doyle’s leave, he had his final date with Alison before she left London on Thursday. He’d had postcards from various points on her wanderings around Britain and the continent, and in the last postcard (from Glastonbury, which she was hating) she’d suggested the Monday as one of the few openings in her busy schedule. He’d confirmed in another postcard (from Finchley) and invited her around for a meal. He was dreading it. She would surely expect them to sleep together one last time, and he didn’t know if he would be up to it, in any sense of the phrase. The numbness was most profound around his sexual feelings - he hadn’t felt a glimmer in a fortnight. He tried not to think about it. If he worried it would only make things worse. He cooked a Chinese meal; it seemed appropriate to end as they’d begun.

She was punctual, and in a good mood, full of stories from her travels, which she told well. Doyle was content just to listen, and to insert the laughter, indignation and questions in the appropriate places. It was good not to have to search for ways to entertain her; if it had been left to him there would have been awkward silences. And the confident, lively recital reassured him that she could take care of herself; she was no victim. In a few weeks he’d just be a one-liner in one of her stories of London life - the copper who could cook, maybe.

After the meal, which she said was even better than the first, they moved to the sofa, as usual. He put an arm around her, more apprehensive than he had been the first time. She leant against him, and her arm closed around his waist. He closed his eyes, surveying the state of his own nerves. There was no repulsion, at least, none of the chill that came when he thought of holding Bodie. They talked, and drank their coffee and liqueurs. It was so similar to that first time. He felt gratitude towards her, and a distant affection. He’d lost nothing by knowing her, and she’d been good company. The occasional resentment he’d felt had been due to his faults, not hers.

He held her closer, and she turned to kiss him. It felt good to touch, very good to see her smile and feel her hold his head. It was more reassurance. He still felt numb - too numb for passion - and very isolated, but this contact gave him hope. He wanted to thank her, and he did so in the only way he knew how, giving her the only thing she seemed to want from him - he took her to bed and took great care of her. He told her that this was for her, told her to lie back and enjoy it, and she did. She closed her eyes and concentrated on his skilful touches, and thus didn’t discover that he was not at all aroused. He used his fingers and mouth to bring her to orgasm, as he had the first night, and when he moved up the bed to hold her, he told her that he’d come, and she accepted that.

It was an easy parting the next morning. She promised to write when she was settled in Somerset - he promised to visit. When she’d left, he wondered if he would ever see her again.

* * * * *

On Tuesday evening he met Bodie in town, but didn’t tell him about his last date with Alison, since that was no longer any of Bodie’s business.

They had been planning to meet during the rest of Doyle’s leave, but Bodie said that he thought he ought to call it off. He sounded embarrassed, and Doyle felt a jolt of alarm. Was Bodie drawing away? Trying to find other interests? Odd, that the last right he felt he owned in this relationship was the right to be the one who walked away. How would he feel if Bodie didn’t care about him any more? The bewilderment showed in his face, and Bodie hurried to explain that there was something on at work. Well ... there wasn’t yet, but he just ... knew that something was brewing, and he had to be on the spot.

“Nose for trouble.” He shrugged. “I’m not always right, but often enough.”

Doyle nodded, understanding perfectly. “If it breaks early, give me a bell.”

“Sure. But ... don’t count on it.” He meant “Don’t wait by the phone” but that wasn’t something he could ever have said to Ray, and now ... He wondered if Ray would think of him at all during those days.

* * * * *

On Friday morning, Doyle and Garrett were assigned to foot patrol together. They started their rounds in a silence which was not broken even when they stopped for coffee.

The waves of people moved through the streets, each group seeming quite distinct: night-workers returning home; milkman and postman doing the rounds; cleaners and security staff going to open offices; classic commuters heading down into the underground with briefcase or handbag and fixed expression; local workers and schoolkids emerging from the underground or getting off the bus; and finally the pattern broke up and there was just the random movements of shoppers, couriers and tourists. It took about four hours to see the whole dance, and Doyle had always enjoyed it. There was a chaotic purpose to it that appealed to him. No other shift had a spectacle to match it. He would happily stay on earlies for the rest of his life. Not that anyone was ever going to offer him the chance.

The morning was nearly over when Garrett said quietly and dryly, “There’s your friend.”

He followed the direction of her nod, mildly apprehensive, and then groaned. “Oh, God, doesn’t he ever give that thing a bath?”

The dog from the pub fight was ambling towards them along the pavement; the owner wasn’t in sight but as they watched he appeared from a newsagent’s and joined his animal. He glanced at the two police officers. It started as a covert look, not meant to be seen, that most people used with the law, even when they were perfectly innocent - or as innocent as anyone is. It changed to a smile when he recognised Doyle, and he hurried over to thank him (third time, was it?) for his care of the dog.

Doyle didn’t know whether the animal itself ever recognised him or not, but it slobbered over his feet just the same, and then did the same to Garrett, which was not appreciated. It was a ridiculously affectionate

animal and would cuddle up to anyone, it seemed, which had been the cause of the pub fight.

Doyle dropped to the dog’s level, aware of Garrett’s amused smirk, and scratched around the ridges on its skull. It thought this was great, and panted its noisy and smelly appreciation, tail thumping on the pavement. The owner carried on talking, telling Garrett yet again what a great man she was working with. Doyle carried on stroking. He envied the dog, almost. Things must be so simple for it: everyone was a friend; everyone was warmth to be cuddled up to. Was it aware of the passage of time, of change? Did it have a memory? In its world Bodie must still be stretched out on the settee in Doyle’s flat, half-asleep, a perfect bed for a dog. Yes, envy. In Doyle’s world that was gone for ever.

He straightened up, and soon he and Garrett moved off.

“Why did you take that thing home?” she asked, not for the first time. “It’s revolting.”

“I ask myself that every time I see it. Just felt sorry for it, I suppose. Didn’t want to ...” he shrugged, “... dump it.”

“Ah.”

“It wasn’t that much effort anyway. And it seemed to get on with Bodie.” The memory was so close to the surface, and it was company, of a sort, and he wanted to indulge himself.

“How long did you look after it?” she asked, slightly puzzled.

“Just one night, till the bloke got out of hospital. Bodie was staying with me at the time, while his flat was being redecorated.” He stopped and smiled. “There was a flood in the flat upstairs from him. It made an incredible mess. I got back that night around midnight, and Bodie was crashed out on the sofa ...”

Yes, it was good to tell someone. It made it real, somehow, provided an anchor for his experiences. Maybe if he’d been able to talk to someone about Bodie he could have sorted out his feelings, wouldn’t be so changeable, so easily influenced. That wasn’t possible, of course, but as he spoke he felt himself becoming less numb, and the remembered tenderness made him smile.

When he finished, Ruth laughed. “I’d never have pegged him as an animal-lover. If he can put up with that thing slobbering over his neck, he’s a second St. Francis of Assisi. I’d have finished it off in the pub.”

“You’re a hard woman, WPC Garrett.” But he smiled, and they finished their shift in an easier mood.

* * * * *

Bodie called on Friday night, as he had every other night. He was still waiting, but still convinced that something was about to happen any minute.

They were awkward on the ‘phone, frightened of silences, no longer having their shared life to talk about. Still, it was better than nothing, as Doyle discovered over the weekend. He kept on telling himself not to worry, not to tune in for every single news bulletin.

* * * * *

At least someone had had a good weekend. Garrett had spent the time with her friend Cathy, and was back to “copper mode” - calm and unoffendable. The danger was obviously past, and Doyle was pleased when they were put on car patrol together.

At six thirty it was already warm, and Garrett was moaning about having to wear wool during a heat-wave. They meandered through their territory. Nothing happening. Not surprising, really. All you expected on Monday morning was spillover from the weekend - crimes or disasters only just discovered.

Just after eight they got their first call. Something nasty had been found on a building site. They shrugged at one another and set off. The building site was a row of houses in a derelict area by the railway. It was in the middle of a number of streets that were being re-developed; the houses around had been cleared months ago, but work was going slowly, it seemed, and only this row had been touched so far.

When they drove up they saw a group of men standing on the pavement outside the shell of a house. Garrett leaned out of the window and asked who’d called the police. After a slight pause and some shuffling, a pale, red-eyed man stepped forward, and she got out to meet him.

He started telling her in great detail about how he’d arrived first and started getting the materials ready, and had then gone inside the house, where he’d found it. He got noticeably paler as he continued the story. “It was awful, miss. Just ... just awful. I told the others to stay out, and then I went to the phone box,” he pointed to the end of the street away from the railway, where a red phone box, and a few curious children could be seen, “and I ... and I asked them to send someone round.”

Doyle was standing next to Garrett. “What was it you found?”

“It’s a dog. Someone’s killed a dog in there. It’s a ... it’s a mess, a terrible mess.”

The two police officers looked at one another and raised their eyebrows. Doyle went back to the car and got a blanket from the boot. At the bottom of the steps, he turned and asked the man, “Where is it?”

The man swallowed, “At the back, near the garden.”

They went through the doorway. The roof and top floor had gone, as had most of the interior walls on the ground floor, but the rubble hadn’t been cleared away. The low sun shone through the broken windows, creating sharp shadows, and showing the brickdust they were stirring into the air. After a few steps they smelt it.

“Oh God.” Garrett put her hand over her face, blocking her nose and trying to filter the breath into her mouth. As they moved closer they could hear the buzzing of flies.

It was a small, dark, long-haired dog, or had been, anyway. Garrett saw that much before she lurched round and stumbled towards the doorway. Before she got there she doubled up and was painfully sick. Doyle knelt beside her and laid a hand on her back. When the spasms were over he handed her a handkerchief. She wiped her mouth and tried to summon some clean saliva to get rid of the taste.

“You don’t have to stay in here. There’s not a lot to do anyway. I’ll just cover it up and take a look around. Get onto the station, and ask them to call the RSPCA. They’ll want to know about this anyway, and they’ll send a van to collect the body.”

She nodded.

“Then ask the builders if they’ve seen anyone else on this site, or if they know if anyone’s been using it. And ask them for some tea. We could both use it. OK?”

She nodded again, stood up, straightened her uniform, and left.

Doyle turned back towards the body. He’d seen worse, far worse, and most of it done to humans. The animal had been stoned to death. Its head was a pulp, and bloodied lumps of rubble lay around it. Flies were clustered on the splattered meat, and on the smeared faeces.

Telling himself he’d seen worse, he forced himself to examine the mess. Close to the body was a pipe, sticking through the floor - this had once been a kitchen, it seemed - and a rope was tied around the pipe. The other end of the rope was lost to sight among the gore.

Doyle took a deep breath, pinched his nose shut, and moved forward to kneel by the pipe. He felt his way along the rope, fighting to keep his guts under control, and shaking his head vigorously to drive the flies away. As he’d expected the rope was tied to a collar, and some distance around the collar was a tag.

He rubbed at the metal with sweating, shaking hands, until he could make out the writing. The address was one he knew, though somehow the man had never told him that the creature’s name was Jasper.

 _Let’s cover you up, Jasper. Give you some privacy._ The blanket was dusty and greasy and smelt of petrol and disinfectant. He wiped his hands on it as well as he could, then found himself burying his face in it, welcoming any escape from the smell of rotting meat.

 _It shouldn’t be getting to me like this. Not after all this time. It’s only a dog, for God’s sake_. But it was a friend, in a way. It knew him. And he’d felt protective towards it, right from the start. Of course he should feel something. Maybe it wasn’t so strange.

Eventually he lifted his face, and took the blanket over, and covered the little body with great care.

 _Time to go._ But he couldn’t accept that that was all he could do. Jasper deserved something more, some effort at justice. But with the dog licence at 17.5 pence, it had used up its credit with the public purse with cost of the radio call and the petrol.

He looked around nonetheless, hoping for ... something, trying to see beyond the broken bricks and the splashes of blood and tissue. It was all such a mess. How could he possibly say that anything was out of place, when _everything_ was out of place?

Footprints? Well, there was one of his own, a crescent of red in the dust. And a few scuff marks, places where the floorboards showed through, in places where he hadn’t stepped. But they weren’t clear enough to be prints, and they had most likely been made by the workmen, anyway.

He moved around the other side of the body, near the garden. The stones must have been thrown from inside the room - the garden was on too low a level, and the remains of the wall would have got in the way. He crouched down low, as he had when he’d last seen the dog and petted it, and looked across the room, trying to imagine where the killer (or killers?) must have stood. Anywhere around, maybe all around.

He uncovered the corpse to see the bloody stones again, and to try and judge from their position. His concentration made the sight bearable: he was hunting for information, not seeing the insides of something that had seen him as a friend.

Well, it was still a wide range, but he thought they were pointing to an area in front of the fireplace. There was a patch that was almost clear, and behind it a large pile of bricks that had once formed a dividing wall - plaster and wallpaper still clung to some of them. Looking down again, he saw that the missile near his feet held a scrap of blue and white paper, part of a pattern of windmills and milkmaids - clean and domestic, a nice choice for a kitchen.

With Jasper decently covered again, he moved carefully to the fireplace, keeping to the outside of the room, so that he could say, afterwards, where he’d stepped. Yes, there were signs of activity in the area he’d identified, but it was so confused. There’d be nothing he could pick out from this. Still, he scanned it methodically, his head moving slowly from side to side so as not to miss a single line in the dust.

It nearly escaped him, because he thought he knew what he was looking for, had been focused to recognise a print like his own - those curves, that pattern. And it was only out of the corner of his eye that he saw it, as he was giving up. It was maybe half the size of the mark he’d been looking for. Very faint, but it was there, and it should not have been, not in the dust of a wrecked house. The print of a child’s shoe - a sneaker probably, with a textured sole that had left a cluster of small circles.

Outside, Garrett and the workmen were standing around the panda car. There was a thermos flask on the bonnet, and the white-faced Garrett was cradling a plastic mug. They looked around as he approached.

“Is there any more of that?” Someone passed him a brimming beaker, and he dipped his nose into the combined smell of hot plastic and hot tea. Bliss. It was all so normal.

“The RSPCA say a van’ll be around in half an hour or so,” Garrett said.

He nodded and then spoke to the man who’d called them. “They’ll take the body, but you’ll have to clear up yourselves. Have you got a hose handy? It’ll wash away easily enough.” His voice deepened as he aimed at reassuring authority. “It’s not as bad as it looks at first sight.”

The builders went into a huddle, and the police officers were left on their own. Doyle said very quietly, “It’s the dog from the pub fight. You know, the one we met on Friday.”

“Jesus,” she said eventually. Are you sure?”

“I found the tag on his collar.”

She glanced across at his hands, and then away. He looked down and saw the red lines in the creases of his skin. They were silent while he drank his tea.

“D’you get anything useful from them?” He gestured with his head towards the men.

A shrug. “They haven’t actually _caught_ anyone here. But there’s been lots of stuff stolen. Bannisters, and floorboards, and fireplaces. And they said they know there’ve been courting couples in some of the houses.” Her face twisted in something that might have been a smile. “They were very bashful about that.”

“Mmm. Usual sort of thing. D’they say anything about kids?”

She shook her head, then suddenly turned to look at him, eyes wide. “You don’t think ...?”

“I found a kid’s footprint. In a place I think the rocks were thrown from.”

“A kid?” Almost pleading with him to change his mind.

“Kids, probably. They’ll do almost anything if they egg each other on, especially if there’s a leader with a bit of imagination.”

“Oh God.” Garrett’s imagination was filling in some of the gaps. Doyle moved to shield her from any spectators, partly for her privacy, and partly for the force’s reputation. But she calmed herself very quickly. After a few gulping breaths, she closed her eyes tight, and when she opened them again she was in copper mode. “What do we do now?”

“Wait for the van. Tell the owner. Make a report.”

“What about enquiries?” she said indignantly. “Investigations?”

“It’s a _dog_ , Ruth. This sort of thing happens all the time. Nothing’s going to be done about it while people are getting mugged and burgled. If one of that lot turns himself in -“ He gestured to the end of the street, where the children were still gathered, watching. It was school holidays. “- then they’ll get their hands slapped. But that’s it.”

“But it’s disgusting. It’s _evil_.”

“Probably, but -“ The van was arriving. The two women in it had had a better briefing than Doyle or Garrett, and came equipped with masks and Vicks, as well as rubber gloves, a stretcher, and a length of plastic sheeting. They listened grimly as he gave an account of what he’d found and what he suspected, but didn’t seem surprised. They exchanged names and contact numbers in case of further developments. “You’ll tell the owner?” the elder asked Doyle.

“Yeah.”

“We can keep the body for a couple of days. If he wants to take care of burying it himself, he can call us.”

When the body had been taken away, the workmen moved in with the hose they’d found and connected to a standpipe in the street. Doyle reclaimed his handkerchief from Garrett, wet it in the water leaking from the joint between the hose and the standpipe, and cleaned his hands properly.

Back in the car, Doyle said, “I’m going to drive away from here very slowly, and I’m going to check out the nearest streets. Watch what those kids do. See if any of them run, and see which houses they go to.” But by the time he turned the car round in the cul-de-sac, the children had already disappeared.

The dog’s owner did not answer the door. Doyle sighed. “He’ll be at work, I suppose.”

“D’you know where he works?”

He shook his head.

“We could ask his neighbours. Ask in that newsagent’s he was in the other day.” They did as she suggested, but no one knew.

“I’ll come round this evening, then.” Doyle led the way back to the car.

“This is another part of the job they play down in the recruitment ads.”

“D’you blame them?” A pause. “How you doing?”

A harsh sigh. “Bearing up, I suppose. I just can’t help thinking -“ She swallowed. “God knows why I’m complaining. If I’m honest this _is_ why I joined. To put myself through this, see if I could take it.”

“So now you know you can,” he said briefly, not wanting her to launch into a self-analysis. He was much less calm than he seemed. What he really wanted to do was round up every child in the area, and give them an interrogation that would have made veteran football thugs nervous.

At the station there was a lot of attention and a lot of questions. There were a surprising number of dog-lovers (or children-haters) on the relief. When Doyle said, “Look, I know we can’t officially give any time to this. But will you let us go back and try a house-to-house when we’re between calls?”, Inspector Saxton just nodded, and said, “I’ll put you on foot. Give Woods and Mackenzie the car.”

* * * * *

“So this sort of thing _does_ bother you?” They were walking back to the street.

“Of course it does. Just because I’ve got used to seeing it doesn’t mean I think it doesn’t matter. I mean, would I do the job if I thought that?”

A shrug. “People get hardened.”

“Not _that_ much. Not me.”

From the sounds inside the house, the building work was continuing as normal after the morning’s interruptions. Doyle decided on the order for the enquiries, and they went round together - it was useful to have one free to look while the other was talking, and Garrett was still new to this.

The natural approach was to appeal to the children as possible witnesses, giving no hint of their suspicions, but it was a strain, after when they had seen that morning. The other calls came as a relief, really.

On their way back from the third call, at about half one, Doyle got them a can of Coke each, and they stood opposite the building site discussing their progress before they tackled another street.

A few people had claimed to have known the dog by sight, having seen it in the area, with and without its owner. But no one remembered seeing it over the weekend.

Most people in view of the house or who had children said that they thought children played in it, and were horrified at the idea that a child might have discovered the dog first. Some even seemed to blame the police for this possibility - if they patrolled the area properly nothing nasty could happen to the children, the argument went. People with children, whether in view of the house or not, thought their children probably played there, though some pointed out that it wasn’t something the children would tell them about: “That’s half the fun of an empty house, isn’t it? That it’s a secret. You’re not supposed to be there. You don’t rush back and tell your parents.”

As for the children themselves, the rule seemed to be that the closer they lived to the house, the more likely they were to admit having been in it (though not last weekend, of course).

As Doyle and Garrett agreed, this didn’t necessarily mean that the house had only a very local appeal, just that the only children who’d admit to playing there were the ones who thought they might have been seen by their neighbours - safer to own up, than to be caught lying. Doyle’s gut feeling (and his guts were doing a lot of feeling that morning) was that there had been a gang drawn from a wide area. Four streets away there was a boy who said he’d never even heard about the house; Doyle had hated him on sight, and was sure he’d seen him watching from the end of the street that morning. And there were others.

He didn’t tell Garrett about the fantasies he was having about interrogations, or about the fact that he could fit every one of the children they’d seen into the picture he was forming of the group by the fireplace. He saw them in a ragged circle round the dog, some bending to get more ammunition, some aiming, some watching as the stones flew and the blood ran. And all their eyes avid and gleaming. And their shouts and laughter excited, exultant.

“We’re not going to get anywhere, are we?”

“Probably not.”

“Is this what a real murder enquiry’s like?”

“Some of them. In the early stages. Which are probably all you’ll ever see. But we’d have to be more thorough then, and carry on till the evening to get people when they come back from work.”

“Mmm. What miracle of marketing gave detective work a glamorous image?”

“Beats me.” This direction in the conversation was a welcome distraction. “Or maybe it’s just this Division. Maybe the others are overrun with vague-looking but brilliant aristocrats. And all the cases they get are near-perfect murders in country mansions, with servants bringing smoked salmon sandwiches between difficult, but challenging interviews.”

She managed a small smile, and finished her Coke. “What time d’you think we’ll finish?”

“Up to you. We’re only about halfway through here, I think. But as you said, we’re not going to get anywhere. Go home at two, if you like. I think I’ll keep at it a bit longer. If Saxton agrees. I have to stick around to see the owner, anyway.”

A pause, then she said very quietly, “I’ll keep at it too, if that’s OK. I don’t want to go home. I keep ... seeing it, thinking about it. I’ll go round the bend back in my room.”

“Don’t go back, then. Meet a friend. Keep yourself busy.”

“Yeah. God, I hope Cathy’s in this evening.”

“Can’t you phone her at work? Tell her it’s an emergency?”

She frowned unhappily. “I can’t remember her number.” Then she brightened. “But I know the name of the firm. I can call Directory Enquiries.” She looked up the road at the phone box. Doyle dug in his pockets and handed her some change.

She came back visibly happier and more relaxed. He envied her. If only it was as easy to arrange an evening with Bodie.

They covered two more houses, then went back to the station for the end of the shift. Saxton agreed to let them carry on. “No overtime, though.” The idea of overtime hadn’t occurred to them.

They went out again in Doyle’s car, and carried on, this time uninterrupted by other calls. They took it in turns to buy the Coke for their breaks, and finally gave up shortly before five, having gained nothing except the knowledge that they’d tried.

Doyle drove Garrett to the section house, to change and head south to Kennington.

“What’re _you_ going to do?” Expecting an answer involving Bodie.

Doyle shook his head. “I’m OK. It _does_ get easier. You’ll see.”

He parked outside the owner’s flat, which was in a quiet side-street two blocks away from the outside of the area they’d covered in their enquiries. There was still no answer at the door, so he went to the newsagent’s, and bought himself a bike magazine. He _had_ to have some way of occupying himself - despite what he’d told Garrett, he was far from OK, probably in a worse state than she was.

Back in the car, he looked at the pages of the magazine. The print was black on white, the photographs gleaming chrome, black leather and grey tarmac, and all he saw was red, deep red. He blinked his eyes hard, but of course it wasn’t in front of his eyes, it was inside his brain, and it had been waiting all day. He tried to force it away by concentrating on the article open in front of him. But he didn’t need to visualise the small, dark, sprawled body. It was a presence, with him in the car. They were together, and they couldn’t escape each other.

He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his temples, his face twisting. Then he controlled himself, as Garrett had controlled herself that morning. He opened his eyes, lowered his hands, and sat upright, his face and his mind briefly calm. Then his right hand remembered the slimy feel of the collar, and the stiff, rough fur, and he gasped, and wiped his hand compulsively on his trousers. But that didn’t get rid of the horror, it just spread it to the rest of his body, and he shuddered and panted, wanting to crawl out of his skin and leave it behind. He was starting to hyperventilate and he knew it, and again he controlled himself, slowing his breathing, and achieving another brief calm.

* * * * *

That helpless, final sprawl. This time he saw just the body not the blood, the short legs twisted in their final position, the fur matted with shit. And he sighed deeply, aching, beyond panic now.

In him all pity, all regret, all protectiveness were drawn in the end to one object. Bodie. He’d tended to Bodie when the man had been nearly as helpless, as absent. He’d wiped the waste from between his legs. He’d been with him at his most private moments, nearly as private as death.

“Bodie.” Mouthed - no sound.

Then a vision formed, and as it appeared he knew the elements had been in place from his first glimpse in the shattered room. He saw Bodie lying on his back on the settee, feet dangling over the arm, the dog cradled against his chest. And they were both dead, both destroyed in the same way.

He was shaking and could not stop.

Somewhere Bodie was lying dead. He felt it. The fact, the truth had just been revealed in his brain. The cells that contained the knowledge were cold and hard and fixed - a black pearl that grew as the seconds passed and layers of certainty were added. He could feel it, could have pointed to it. Pain flooded his chest, a tide of acid burning away the numbness.

What was there now? There was the owner. Yes, he must wait to see him. He owed them all that. And then? To CI5? Would they let him see the body? He covered his mouth to stifle the moans, and bent his head.

There was a knock on the window of his car. He jerked up, wide-eyed. It was the dog owner, who jumped back alarmed. Suddenly Doyle had responsibilities again, and from somewhere he found that control again.

He got out of the car, grave-faced. The man said, “They said in the newsagent’s that the police had been looking for me, and when I saw you here I guessed you must be waiting for me. Have you found Jasper? I didn’t make a report, you know, because he does go off sometimes. Has he got into trouble?”

Doyle said, “I think we’d better go inside. I’ve got some bad news.” What else could the news be, after that? But he could see that the man was still hoping. He didn’t tell him the whole truth, just said the dog had been found on a building site, and had been hit on the head, making it sound like an accident.

The man blinked furiously, and then let the tears fall. Doyle just sat, waiting for him to stop, then gave him the RSPCA number, and suggested he ask a friend round. As he left the man was calling his sister.

Doyle went home. The flat seemed gapingly empty, as if it had known all day about Bodie. Maybe he should move. How could he sit on that settee again? Or sleep in the bed they’d shared? He changed into his second-best jeans and jacket, wondering if he should have gone back to the station.

What next? Drive to CI5, to see him and say goodbye. Might be quickest to call - not HQ, they wouldn’t tell him over the ‘phone - but his flat. There might be someone packing his things away. And he’d know then, know where to go first.

The ‘phone rang in Bodie’s flat. He knew after the fifth ring that the flat was empty - CI5 agents seemed to treat every call as a possible emergency. But he stood there anyway, eyes closed, thinking forward to his arrival at CI5 HQ. Who would tell him?

“Hello?” A creaky, rushed voice. He didn’t recognise it. The man must just have arrived and run to the phone.

“Hello. This is Ray Doyle. I was a -“

“Ray! You’re home. When did you get in? I called a couple of hours ago.”

“Bodie?” His voice was thin with disbelief.

“Who else?”

“Bodie, I ...” He swallowed. “Can I come round?”

“Of course. I’d phoned to -“ But Doyle was already on his way out of the flat.

He remembered little of the drive. London’s streets were far less real to him than the action inside his mind. The vision of the settee came back again, but it had lost its power. The black pearl had disappeared. There was still pain, but it was less urgent and tearing, and now it was for the dog alone. He’d seen a lot as a copper, more than most could cope with. When he’d found out about the crimes of Bodie’s father, he’d thought that that was the worst he could imagine. But it wasn’t. The ragged circle around the dog was the worst, with everything that led up to it, and everything that followed from it.

When had the children got the idea of killing the dog? That thought was a peephole into hell. It was such a friendly animal. It really liked people, liked to be close to them, liked to touch them. Did it come up to them in the street, flop down on their feet, lift its head asking to have its chin tickled? Did it follow them to the house, tail wagging in delight? Did it lick the hands that tied the rope around its collar? And when did it realise that it was not among friends?

Doyle started shaking again, ice not acid filling his chest now. He had crouched by the body, at the dog’s level, and looked over to where the children must have stood.

There was something profoundly wrong with a world in which something like that could happen. If there was a god, he should be ashamed of himself. And if there wasn’t ... His eyes focused on the people around him on the streets, and for a fraction of a second he hated them all as he’d hated the children he’d seen that day. They were all implicated. They were all human.

* * * * *

Bodie frowned at him as he opened the door. “You hung up on me,” he said, more puzzled than offended. Then he took in Doyle’s intent but unfocused eyes and rapid breath, and realised that something was deeply wrong. His first reaction was largely selfish: a fear that Ray had found him out, and that this was the end of everything. Then he just wanted to take him in his arms, and hold him - absorb him into a place inside himself where the pain would not dare follow. But Ray couldn’t bear his touch.

So he stood back to let Doyle in. “Come in. You look as if you’ve had a rough day. I’ll get you a drink.” Settle him down, and then maybe he’d talk.

Doyle followed him to the door of the kitchen. The nearness of Bodie took up all his thoughts, all his senses. He hadn’t really known why he’d been coming to see him, once he’d found out that he was alive. He hadn’t consciously been heading towards comfort. But Bodie was beside him now.

For Doyle it was as if he was aware of the presence and activity of every cell in the other man’s body, aware of the smallest bead of sweat, aware of each bristle on his jaw and chin. He closed his eyes and stepped forward, crushing his face against the bare damp neck and the open collar of the shirt, and wrapping his arms painfully tight around the broad chest. He moaned brokenly. Then Bodie’s arms came to hold him, and for a while his mind emptied of everything except the rhythm of his breathing.

Bodie didn’t try to ask what was wrong. He just kept the grip of his arms and hands firm, and murmured over and over again, “Shhh. Shhh, Ray. I’m here. I’ve got you. I won’t let you go. Shhh.”

They stood there for a very long time.

Finally Bodie felt Doyle’s breathing become steadier, near normal, and he felt that it was safe to move one of his hands to cradle the bowed head, and to turn his own to rub his face against the curls. He wanted very much to kiss him, but didn’t. It probably wasn’t what Ray needed from him, not now, maybe not ever.

After another long time, of gently shifting hands, Doyle gave a deep sigh and then raised his head, though he did not loosen his hold. He looked at Bodie, eyes still wide, but calmer now. There was no ... real ... need, any more. No questions. He felt as if he’d given everything over to Bodie.

Bodie seemed to read that in his eyes. “Would you like that drink now?” he asked softly. Doyle nodded, and drew away slightly so that Bodie could get to the bottles and glasses. Bodie led them slowly to the settee, and they sat on the edge, heads bent so close together the glasses clinked as they drank the large scotches quickly. When they were finished Bodie took the glasses and set them on the table, then turned so he could circle Doyle with his arms.

When Doyle had sat with his head resting on Bodie’s broad shoulder, silent, eyes closed, for maybe five minutes, Bodie raised a hand and brushed the back of his fingers against the still face. “Do you want to tell me what’s happened?”

Doyle opened his eyes and frowned thoughtfully. He wasn’t desperate to talk, but Bodie should know. He nodded, and then started to speak. He described the day simply and sadly. There was little emotion in his voice, but he talked of the feelings he’d had through the day, and for Bodie it was like living it with him. He swore in protest when Doyle described finding the small footprint, and soon after that he shifted them until they were lying on their sides on the settee, legs bent and entwined to fit in the short space, and arms holding tight.

Doyle described everything except his vision of Bodie’s death with its certainty and terror - what did that matter now? He finished with the last horror: the hatred he’d felt during the drive to Bodie’s flat. “And I thought, ‘There’s something wrong with humans. There can’t be any good where this is possible.’ And I hated everyone. Except you.” And he fell silent, story over, and wriggled over so that he could bury his face in the join of Bodie’s neck and shoulder, and think of nothing except Bodie.

Bodie could think of nothing to say. He felt that he’d failed Ray, somehow, in not protecting him from what he’d learnt that day. Bodie had always known that there was something wrong with humans, and the thought of Ray coming close to that knowledge horrified him.

At first he told himself that it was stupid to blame himself for not looking after him properly - he couldn’t be with him every minute of the day, couldn’t decide which calls Ray took. But as he stared over Ray’s curls and felt the rise and fall of his chest, he knew in the pit of his stomach that he was the cause of this somehow, and gradually he pieced it together. The god who had revelled in William’s childhood despair was active again, but this time he was going for Ray. _He should never have met me. He’d be OK if he hadn’t met me. I make things go wrong. I can’t help it._

Did Bodie really believe that God had killed the dog and placed it in Ray’s path? Not exactly, though it was easiest to think about it like that. Did it really matter anyway, since it was obvious that Ray would be better off without him, dog or no dog? It was all his fault in the end. He turned his head so that Ray’s hair brushed his lips, and silently asked for forgiveness.

Doyle felt the movement and smiled, and then thought that two hours ago he would not have believed that he would ever smile again. He had been flailing around, caught in a trap of horror, sinking in deeper with each attempt to escape.

Now he was at peace. He had seen terrible things and imagined worse, but he had escaped. It was outside him now. He would look at it again, and shudder as he should, but he could walk away.

Bodie had freed him.

He didn’t know how, except that he had been able to concentrate on Bodie completely and shut out the red visions, and the smell and feel and sight and sound of Bodie had made him safe, and his mind had stopped struggling, and now he was at rest.

What was it about this man? Was it just the fact that he loved him? But he’d loved Ann, and she could never have helped him like this. And most of the time his love for Bodie had brought anything but peace. It was something else, as well as love or instead of love. It had been there from their first nights in Africa, when he’d only just stopped hating him. The weight and strength of Bodie’s arms seemed to answer a need so deep inside him that he hadn’t even realised it was there until they’d met.

For a while he drifted with that thought, trying vaguely to map out that need. Then a gentle shift of Bodie’s hands made him smile again and take a deep breath, smelling mostly sweat, with a slight sweetness of scotch. Bodie must have had a hard day, and not had time to shower. It was a wonderful smell, full of life and heat, making him feel so safe, far away from the broken house.

But that was just because it was _Bodie’s_ smell, and everything about Bodie was special. If he’d been freshly washed and smooth-jawed and smelling of aftershave and wearing a crisp, white, newly-ironed shirt, the feeling would be just the same.

 _Do I just need to be held in a strong man’s arms?_ His eyebrows twitched. _Is he a father-figure for me?_ A difficult thought - fathers and Bodie. But it might be important.

He couldn’t really remember his own father, except as a source of sorrow for himself and his mother. Maybe that made his need even greater. But it seemed so ungrateful to his mother, who had given him love and care and made him happy until she too had gone away. But wasn’t that how people worked, that they wanted most the thing out of reach, undervaluing what they already had?

What did he want most? For his father to have stayed, for his mother to have lived, to have his own parents, all to himself?

It had all started to go wrong when his father had left, and that meant that if he’d stayed, everything would have been all right. He was sure his own father had been nothing like Bodie, but the more he thought about it the more likely it seemed that Bodie answered prayers he didn’t remember making, prayers for a strong man who would make everything all right. He’d been waiting for him nearly all his life; no wonder he was so glad to have found him.

Would it make any difference, if it really was true? The sex was the difficult part, obviously. But his body didn’t seem to mind - in his newly relaxed state, he was reacting to Bodie as he’d been used to doing for over a year. He wasn’t much aroused yet, but there was a tingling between his legs, and an urge for closeness. Maybe they wouldn’t actually have sex, not today - why change the mood, when he was content as he was?

He released the tight grip of his hands around the broad back, and started stroking. Bodie sighed, and Doyle wondered for the first time what the other man was feeling. What was it like to have a distraught ex-lover turn up on your door-step and fling himself into your arms? Confusing, probably.

“Thank you. I feel a lot better. Don’t think I’ll even have any dreams.”

Bodie smiled slightly, but his hands stilled, and their pressure lightened.

 _I know what he’s thinking. He’s waiting for me to walk out now I’ve pulled myself together. And he’d let me go, too, and then wait for me to phone and suggest a film in the West End as if nothing’s happened. As if he’d done nothing for me. God, he loves me so much._ And the last traces of his anger with Bodie disappeared, and he bent to kiss him.

He felt Bodie tremble briefly, and for a few seconds the other man’s mouth remained closed. Even when it opened and their tongues met, it was very gentle, giving no hint of a fortnight of hunger and despair. Doyle freed his right hand from around Bodie’ waist to hold his head, feeling the short thick curls as if it were the first time. They lapped at one another for long minutes. Though Bodie’s mouth was not urgent, Doyle felt the erection growing against his hip, and the knowledge, the proof that Bodie wanted him changed his mind in an instant - a change of mood would be more than welcome. He moved his hips, giving what it seemed Bodie would not ask for. The kiss deepened. The shape and resilience of Bodie’s buttock against his hand - perfect. He squeezed hard, and Bodie gasped.

“Let’s go to bed.”

Bodie exhaled in agreement, and they untangled themselves with care.

The bedroom was unchanged since the last time. Doyle tried not to think about that. It had been a mistake. They’d learnt from it. And when Bodie’s arms were around him again, it was easy to forget.

They undressed each other slowly, rather shyly. Bodie explored the bared skin with great care, hardly able to believe that he’d been given permission to touch again, frightened that he’d do something wrong.

Ray seemed more beautiful than ever. His arms were lightly tanned, and the hairs on them blended in with the deeper colour. Ray was the only person he had ever met who made him think that the human body might be a sane, intelligent design. But he didn’t know how to tell him. So he just stroked his forearm gently and said, “You’ve been out in the sun. You’ve gone a lovely colour.”

“And you’ve been hiding from it. You don’t tan at all, do you?”

“No. White as a maggot, that’s me.”

“Don’t _say_ that. You’ve got beautiful skin. Like pale, delicate petals. And don’t look like that. It’s the truth. Or like marble.” He stroked Bodie’s arm, then bent to kiss the inside of his elbow, resting his cheek against the rounded muscle and pressing his lips onto the blue line of a vein as it rode over the bone. “Warm marble.” Bodie touched his hair so gently that his scalp felt no pressure.

By the time they reached the bed, Bodie was painfully excited and struggling not to do anything about it, frightened of making any demands. Doyle pushed him gently back on the bed.

“Relax. Let me take care of you. There’ll be time for me later.”

He took care of him with a strong suction, wasting no time with subtleties. When Bodie’s breathing was under control again, he rolled over and started to return the attentions, but Doyle stopped him, saying, “I’m in no hurry. I want to make this last. And I want to come with you inside me.” He’d decided that at the moment they’d moved naked into each other’s arms.

Bodie frowned. “Are you sure?”

“Why shouldn’t I be? It’s what I want.”

Bodie didn’t understand what had changed, why Ray had changed his mind about being fucked. They were supposed to wait until Ray felt surer of him. That was what Ray had said. But he’d done nothing right in that time, nothing at all. He hadn’t earned this. But that meant that it was a gift - _more_ precious. Maybe just for the night, and maybe Ray would regret it later, but he couldn’t say no. Simply couldn’t.

It hadn’t occurred to Doyle that he’d changed his mind. The past had no meaning for him. The only reality was this bedroom, and the thrill of being in bed with Bodie, and the refuge Bodie had given him. As he licked and stroked Bodie erect once more, he thought only of the pleasure they were about to give each other.

Afterwards Bodie opened a chilled bottle of white wine, and the bedroom window, and they sat in bed listening to the distant sounds of the warm July night and talking easily as they hadn’t for some weeks.

“How was your weekend? Did you get that trouble you were expecting?”

Bodie groaned. “Did we ever? I got about six hours sleep over the whole weekend. I got in at about three this afternoon and fell straight into bed. I was fast asleep when you called.”

“You sounded croaky. Didn’t recognise you at first. Is everything sorted out?”

“Think so. I’ve got tomorrow off anyway. There might be follow-up work, but not for a while.”

“What are you going to do tomorrow?”

“Sleep. Until you get off duty. And then whatever you want me to do.”

“I want you to come over for a meal and collect your keys.”

* * * * *

The next morning Doyle arrived at work wearing Bodie’s shirt and underwear, feeling wonderful, planning the meal for the evening. Garrett was not looking so happy.

“Rough night?”

She groaned. “No sleep. Hangover. Cathy’s bloody settee.”

“Did it help, going round to her place?”

She nodded slowly. “Yeah. I _could_ be feeling worse. And believe me that’s quite an admission. What about you? You look reasonably cheerful.”

“I waited around for the owner -“

“How did that go?”

A shrug. “Like you’d expect. And then I had a drink with Bodie. As I said, it’ll get easier for you too. Don’t worry.”

She looked dubious, and they did not discuss the subject any more that day.

The urgency of Doyle’s need for Bodie faded after a few days, largely because Bodie was so effective at meeting that need. The visions of the circle of children, and of the trusting dog would come back, and then he would send them away easily by thinking about the smell of Bodie’s shirts or the feel of his hair, or anything which conjured his presence.

By the end of his leave on Thursday, his subconscious had got bored with his lack of reaction and had given up taunting him. This meant that he lost the vivid, strident desire to have Bodie enfold him completely and occupy all of his senses, all of his nerves. At the height of that desire, on Tuesday and Wednesday mornings, he’d been sad at the idea of leaving him to go to work, and Bodie had done as he’d asked then and fucked him, and he found the serenity he’d hoped for in the sensations that lingered through the morning, and the thought that some of his lover’s semen was still inside him.

But even when that was over, things were not as they had been before. Doyle loved Bodie more than ever, with a new gratitude, and a new reverence for his body, which he now knew to be the centre of his world. But what Bodie felt? Bodie seemed to be uncomfortable with him.

At first he thought it was his imagination, but by the weekend he was convinced that it was not - Bodie just would not take the initiative physically, would not reach out to touch until Doyle had done so first. Doyle couldn’t help feeling hurt by this, even though he thought he understood what lay behind it. _He probably thinks I only came back to him for comfort. He’s waiting for me to prove myself._ So he took care to show Bodie how much he appreciated him and enjoyed his company, sure that he’d relax soon.

They slept together every night of the first week. Bodie was having nightmares again, several times a week. Doyle knew full well that they were his fault, but was sure they weren’t as bad as they had been the first time. Maybe for Bodie the last time had been different, since he’d really wanted it, at least at first. But Bodie still turned away afterwards, hid at the edge of the bed.

* * * * *

On Sunday he invited Garret around for lunch before the beginning of their shift. He’d decided she needed cheering up. Although they hadn’t talked about it, she was still recovering from Monday, and the change to lates meant she couldn’t see much of her friends.

They talked films, computing, travel - anything except police-work. When he told her he was nearly at the end of the programming book, and wanted something more advanced to move on to, she looked thoughtful.

“I haven’t got any books that go farther than that. Most books just teach you the commands in the language, give you a few examples, and then expect you to go off on your own and write a masterpiece.” A pause and a frown. “You could try some of the exercises I did on my course if you like. There were some good ones there. Should have you tearing your hair out for a few weeks at least.”

“What sort of exercise?”

“Oh. Writing a program to solve a maze, or to analyse a piece of writing. Stuff like that. But I haven’t got them here in London. I’ll fetch them when I go home next month. Or I could get Mum to post them if you can’t wait that long.”

“No, that’s great.”

Later, over coffee, he asked, “How are you doing in the section house? You haven’t mentioned it recently.”

“Oh.” A sigh. “It’s bearable, I suppose. I try not to let it get to me. They’ll probably grow up.”

“Bearable for another year or more? You don’t strike me as a natural loner, Ruth.”

Her voice sharpened. “Don’t tell me to make more of an effort to fit in. There is _nothing_ wrong with _me_. I am perfectly capable of making friends, and I will save my time and energy for those who deserve it.”

He raised his hands placatingly. “I know that. I’m not criticizing you. Forget about them. But I think you _do_ need more friends in the force.”

She made a face, then shrugged. “Maybe.”

“We haven’t got time now, but next time you come round we’ll go through the list of the Met’s social clubs.”

She nodded, resigned.

* * * * *

On Monday afternoon Garrett seemed unhappy. After watching her grimacing to herself a couple of times, he asked, “Are you pissed off with me for what I said yesterday about the section house?”

She shook her head. “I’m just thinking of what we were doing this time last week. I feel a bit sick actually. Keep thinking I can smell it.” Occupied as she was with swallowing and breathing deeply, she still noticed Doyle’s brief shudder and clenched jaw. “It _did_ get to you. That stuff about it getting easier was just the standard Hendon line.”

He inhaled deeply, thought about the hair on Bodie’s forearm, and then everything was fine except that Garrett was too nosy by half, and kept on forgetting that she was only a probationer. “It happens to be true.” No advice. He wasn’t her Tutor any more - she could work it out by herself.

She glanced at him, then turned away, apparently scanning the street. He didn’t often clam up like that. Maybe she _had_ been pretty abrasive. Or maybe she’d just been moving towards a no-go area - Ray Doyle’s emotional life. He was perfectly happy to sort out other people’s, but he’d never admit that he had one of his own.

“I’m going to get some mints or something.” She headed into a chemists, and came out with some menthol and eucalyptus sweets. He accepted one without a word.


	12. Heat-Trace - Chapter 10

## Chapter 10

Bodie wasn’t at the flat when Doyle got in after work. He shrugged, slightly disappointed, turned the oven on to heat himself a pizza, and looked through his videos. It hadn’t been a bad day after he and Garrett had stopped sulking at one another.

He was in the kitchen making a salad when Bodie arrived. They shared the pizza and salad, then topped it up with biscuits and cheese. Doyle thought Bodie seemed particularly withdrawn, and subdued. It worried him.

“Have you just got off work?”

Bodie hesitated, then nodded.

“Bad day?”

“Just tedious.”

“You look really fed up. Is there anything wrong?”

Bodie busied himself cutting some more cheese as he shook his head, so Doyle couldn’t seen his face properly. Was there anything more frustrating than trying to get information out of this man? He gave up for the moment.

They were watching the opening credits when a beeping noise came from Bodie’s chest. Doyle jumped and turned round in time to see a look of ill-tempered resignation on his lover’s face.

“Are they calling you in?”

Bodie shrugged, and said, “Can I use your phone?”

Doyle wondered if he should leave the room; was he cleared to hear CI5 conversations? But it didn’t sound like top-security business. It sounded like Bodie in trouble - with Cowley, presumably, though Doyle couldn’t hear the other voice.

“You didn’t tell me I had to stay, sir.”

Pause.

“Well, I thought they’d finished their observations. They left me alone, and I was feeling fine, so I -“

Pause.

“Well, maybe I should have told someone. But you know I hate hospitals. I _am_ feeling fine.”

A long pause.

“Yes, sir.” Very apologetic.

Another long pause.

“No, sir. I know, sir.” It sounded as if the conversation was drawing to a close. Doyle saw Bodie swallow, then, “Um, sir? Do you know what they’ve done with my car?”

A very long pause.

“Thank you, sir. Yes, first thing.” Then he put the phone down and turned to see Doyle’s narrow-eyed glare. He smiled weakly.

“Tell me about your tedious day, Bodie.”

Bodie sat down. “It’s really nothing to get worked up about. It was just another scam of the Cow’s. I got gassed, that’s all.”

“Gassed? You were in hospital.”

“Well, I was a bit woozy afterwards ... throwing up a lot. So they put me in for observation. And when they stopped observing me I discharged myself.”

“You mean the minute they took their eyes off you, you snuck out.”

Bodie shrugged, and grimaced. “I _am_ feeling fine,” he protested.

“Cowley must be livid.”

Bodie nodded.

“Why did you do it? A night in hospital wouldn’t kill you. And what if there _is_ something wrong with you? How are we going to explain it if you collapse on me?”

Bodie studied the floor. “I wanted to see you,” he said quietly.

“Well, you’ve seen me. Now go to bed. Get a good night’s sleep.”

Bodie stood up obediently. “Are you coming?”

“I’m not tired yet. I’ll be through in a few hours.”

* * * * *

Bodie lay in bed. He was not feeling fine at all. He had a headache and was feeling slightly sick still, but those were the least of his problems.

He was more certain than ever that he was going to lose Ray. He’d only got him back because of an accident, because Ray had needed a hug. That wouldn’t be enough to keep him, not when things started going wrong again. And they were starting already, now that Ray was over the worst.

Ray didn’t ask to be fucked anymore, didn’t even make it clear what else he wanted, and now Bodie was frightened to touch him, not trusting himself to do the right thing with this dizzying desire. Because Ray didn’t trust that desire either - Bodie couldn’t forget that, had no real hope of making amends.

He didn’t know what to do. So he was doing nothing except being there for Ray, and watching Ray getting better, and remembering all of their arguments, and trying not to think of what it would be like when Ray walked away for good.

Today he’d been worrying about Ray all the time, very aware that it was a week since the dog. He’d been planning to get to Ray’s early, to cook him a meal, and to be waiting for him in case he was upset by the memories. He’d almost begged not to be taken into hospital, and then had kept on insisting, white-faced and sweating, that he was fully recovered.

When ten o’clock came, and he knew Ray would be heading home to an empty flat, he called for the doctor and gave a last, unsuccessful performance. Then he’d decided on a different tactic: pretend to play along so they’d leave him alone, then make a break for it. They obviously hadn’t been briefed properly on him, because they’d left his clothes in his room.

And Ray was perfectly cheerful. Didn’t even want a quick hug.

And now Ray was angry with him, and would be sitting on the settee thinking about how stupid he was, and wondering if he’d come to see him hoping for a quick fuck. Bodie wondered how many times he would have to prove to himself that he could do nothing right.

Maybe he should leave Ray. Stop bothering him. Leave him free to find someone else. Maybe he should leave England. Maybe he should go back to Africa, or find somewhere else where he wouldn’t be out of place. But he’d run away before when he’d felt like this, and it hadn’t helped. Of course it hadn’t. William was useless, cringing and hateful wherever he was; he had nothing, was nothing, except his secrets. It just showed how stupid he was that he kept thinking he could run away from himself, that he could change. He would stay and accept it. No more running. No more fighting. Accept, and wait for Ray to go.

Doyle went to bed just past three. Bodie was asleep, curled up, turned away from Doyle’s side of the bed, his face nearly hidden in the pillow he was clutching. Doyle washed and undressed quietly and slipped into bed. In the darkness he smiled in the direction of the dark head; it was so good to have him here, even if he was a stubborn idiot at times.

 _Hope he really is OK_.

He wanted to hold him, but didn’t want to risk waking him up. _He’s wiped out. Got to face Cowley tomorrow, too._ Not long till Thursday. They’d make an evening of it in town. Celebrate ... something, anyway.

Doyle slept, and then a while later became aware that he was awake. Unusual for him to wake up in the night, unless he was hungover, or unless ... No, Bodie was perfectly still. What time was it, anyway? He raised his head and looked at the green glow of his alarm clock. 4.47. Oh, well. Just try to get back to sleep.

Then Bodie breathed in deeply, and there was something strange in the sound. Was he still suffering from the effects of the gas? And what did Cowley think he was doing, anyway?

He turned the bed-side light on and rolled over.

Bodie had turned over sometime during the night, but he was still curled up tight, still clutching the pillow. His eyes were closed and his face seemed calm in the dim light, but there was definitely something odd about his breathing. Doyle sat up so that Bodie’s face was no longer in shadow, and saw the wetness on it, and the whiteness of salt on his eyelashes.

Something in Doyle’s chest contracted. _How long has he been crying?_ He reached out to touch the pillow. _How did I manage to sleep through all that?_

The movement seemed to disturb Bodie. His eyelashes fluttered briefly, and then his sobs became audible, and Doyle could see the welling liquid. These weren’t the desperate, protesting tears of the nightmares, though. They seemed utterly defeated and resigned. Was this what happened when the nightmares were allowed to run their course? _But how could I possibly have slept through it?_

He reached out and stroked Bodie’s face, murmuring, “Wake up, Bodie. It’s OK. I’m here.” There was no struggle, no transition. Bodie’s eyes were open.

They stared at one another, Doyle wide-eyed and worried, almost frightened, Bodie with a calm that came from knowing that the worst had already happened.

After a few moments Bodie said quietly, “I’m sorry.”

Doyle opened his mouth, but said nothing. What _could_ you say to that? He moved closer and put his arms around Bodie, who uncurled and allowed himself to be pulled to lie half-on-top-of Doyle, and hid his face. He felt Ray’s lips and breath on his hair and Ray’s hands moving on his back and shoulders.

They were both silent.

Doyle wanted to ask what was wrong, but what was the point? Bodie didn’t like to speak - he’d said that - and Doyle knew now that they didn’t find the same degree of comfort in each other.

Bodie didn’t know what he wanted; it was all so sad, but there was no point in fighting - they’d only hurt each other more. It was even painful to be reminded that Ray loved him and cared for him and wished him well. Didn’t that just emphasise how impossible he was? Screwed up, Ray had said - but he was just being kind. He hoped Ray would recover quickly when they split up, find someone else soon; he didn’t like to think of him unhappy.

Doyle wasn’t sure when Bodie fell asleep again, since he’d been so still anyway. Was Bodie’s calm a good sign? Doyle kept his arms around his sleeping lover until he too slept.

* * * * *

On Tuesday Bodie got away from work at seven, and arranged all the elements of a good evening in. It was a success until they got into the bedroom. A casual observer might have thought they were enjoying themselves, but not one who had seen them at their peak.

Doyle lay silent afterwards, the glow having fled very quickly. _Why_ was Bodie still so ... shy? Or reluctant? Nothing seemed to make any difference, and Doyle was starting to get impatient with it all. How long was Bodie going to keep on testing him? Or was it some kind of punishment, Bodie wanting him to beg for it?

But Bodie’s manner didn’t back that up - he was gentle and loving, and there was no hint of anger. Doyle told himself that there must be some other reason - an innocent one - but he was starting to have his old problems with his doubts of Bodie, and he thought that soon he’d refuse to make any move himself. They should talk about it, really.

That night, too, Bodie wept in his sleep, and when they were both awake they lay together without speaking.

On Thursday, they met in town. Doyle remembered other evenings when they’d decided to skip the meal and the film and even the second pint, having far better things to do with their time together. Now he knew he was putting off going home. What was going to lift them out of this?

The tears were worse than the old nightmares. At least then, waking Bodie had been to rescue him. Now there seemed to be no difference at all, just a change from unconscious to conscious misery. Maybe he should just leave him alone. But the weeping was unbearable, a soft, hopeless despair, and at least it stopped when he woke.

On Thursday night (Friday morning, really) he whispered, “Bodie, what’s wrong? Please let me help. Please.”

But Bodie gave no reply, no sign that he’d heard, and Doyle was sure that he’d never know.

At least with the old nightmares he’d been in on the secret; that had been difficult, but this exclusion was worse. Was Bodie withdrawing from him completely? Was this the after-effects of his attempt to fuck Bodie? Maybe Bodie was frightened of him, of sharing a bed with him, though he overcame this to comfort him after the dog died, because he loved him despite everything. Maybe.

But Bodie had been so aroused that Monday that he’d been in pain. Bodie desired him; there couldn’t be any doubt about that.

So he returned to his initial impression of that Monday, which was that Bodie had been holding back. Holding back, not withdrawing. And not to test him, not to punish him: Bodie wasn’t like that.

Why should Bodie hold back if he wanted him and loved him? Why was Bodie denying himself? Because he didn’t think he deserved Doyle? Well, he’d said that when he’d been trying to apologise for behaving like a shit, but it was hard to imagine Bodie thinking in such puritan terms: “undeserving” - it went with “punishment” and “divine retribution”. They didn’t fit in with what he’d learnt of Bodie’s moral code, which was simple and humanist: “Not to enjoy the pain of others”. Bodie had worked that out for himself, and Doyle loved and respected him for it. Bodie didn’t need the security of heavenly judgement - he had made his own.

So what had happened to Bodie since they’d become lovers again? Why couldn’t he let himself go? What had changed? Why didn’t he want to go back to the way they’d been before?

And then Doyle thought, “But we fought all the time then. We were heading for a split and it came. Nothing’s changed. I can’t fuck Bodie, we have to keep everything secret, and I still have doubts about the way he sees me, even though they may be as paranoid as his insecurities. Because I didn’t understand why he was holding back I assumed he was trying to punish or humiliate me, when it’s obvious that he’s too unhappy to bother with that kind of game. Nothing’s changed ... except that we know it didn’t work out the last time. If we do go back to the way it was before, we’ll probably split up again before the end of the summer.”

He looked over Bodie’s sleeping head towards the window and the dim light that had found the gaps in the curtains. He hated the conclusion he’d just come to, hated it especially because he knew he was right. He had seen it later than Bodie, because in the beginning he’d been blinded by his all-enveloping need for the other man; he hadn’t thought about what would happen when the need faded. But Bodie had thought about it.

Poor Bodie.

Doyle half-approved of the distance Bodie had kept between them, though it made him sad; he approved of anything that kept Bodie from further emotional pain. He couldn’t help Bodie, so why shouldn’t Bodie help himself?

It made sense now - the holding-back, at least. He would have done the same in Bodie’s position. Should he confront Bodie about it? But what was the point, unless he could promise Bodie that they would never split up again, and he couldn’t promise that. Why try and argue or seduce Bodie out from his defences? It would be selfish, as selfish as trying to fuck him.

Let it run its course. A few months maybe. Maybe less if Bodie’s tears continued.

The tears made him feel ... inadequate, as a lover, a friend, a copper. For him, Bodie was the ideal source of comfort: the man who could make everything all right. But for Bodie ... There was nothing in him that answered any such need of Bodie’s. Inadequate. Unequal. Why did Bodie love him? There, he was back to the roots of his insecurities. If the tears continued ... He didn’t know how long he could stand to share a bed with such desolation and know he was not a refuge, not a comfort. He was just a witness who would not go away.

* * * * *

It was a relief, really, to start on nights, to get back to the car. MacKenzie had taken over from Terry a few weeks before, and was busy catching up on operator’s lore. MacKenzie was ambitious and rather boring, and not remotely interested in Ray Doyle’s personal life.

The sense of doom lessened with each night they spent apart, and as he watched Bodie trying to please him, he knew he’d been all wrong before. Bodie saw no fault in him, would not dream of punishing him.

They had a good weekend. Lazy. Picnic in the park. A film at the local Odeon. Good sex. Doyle was willing to be generous now that he’d stopped being suspicious. He led Bodie into the bedroom, and made a fuss of him, and then wondered if it wasn’t another form of selfishness. Bodie’s fragile pleasure was almost painful to watch.

_I should leave him his defences, just in case. But ..._

There was a special thrill in being that important to someone.

As Bodie tasted traces of his own semen from Doyle’s open mouth, Doyle thought that they might make it. If they carried on like this. If Bodie’s tears were over by the time earlies started. He’d got into the habit of expecting the worst, and that wasn’t helping them at all.

* * * * *

But Bodie’s tears were not over, as Doyle discovered on Thursday, the first night they’d spent together in a week.

He stroked Bodie’s hair in the dark, near tears himself, and murmured nonsense to him, not even aware that it was his mother’s lullaby. It soothed _him_ , even if it did nothing for Bodie. He fell silent eventually, and there was just the sound of long-awaited rain and very occasional cars. He started drifting back to sleep.

“I’m sorry, Ray.”

A pause while he woke up. “What on earth for, love?”

“You can’t get a decent night’s sleep. I’ll sleep on the settee.” He was quite serious.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’d sleep far worse thinking you were going through this on your own.” Pause, then lower, “Unless you’d _rather_ I didn’t wake you up?”

Bodie’s head moved - it must have been a shake - and he said, “I love you,” as if that answered the question.

“I know.” Two cars splashed by. “Are you sure it wouldn’t help to tell me what’s wrong?” He felt Bodie jerk, and he closed his eyes and swallowed hard. Inadequate. He didn’t trust himself to say anything else. Finally they both slept again.

* * * * *

On Friday, Bodie called Doyle during the day, and told him that he’d found out that there was an Ayckbourn comedy on at a fringe theatre in a pub in Battersea. Did he fancy going that evening?

Doyle made his way to CI5 HQ in the evening, and they drove straight to Battersea, and managed to get tickets.

It was the first time either of them had been to a fringe play, and Doyle at least felt slightly conspicuous when they stepped into the pub, not knowing the procedure in these places. It reminded him of the first time they’d been to the Chinese place with the trolleys. Neither liked feeling out of his depth, but they could take the risk together. When - if - they finished, there would be no more of these adventures. At quieter moments in the play, Doyle found himself drifting to these melancholy thoughts.

They both had the weekend off, which they spent at Doyle’s flat this time. Doyle cooked an elaborate Chinese meal on Saturday, and led Bodie to Camden Lock on Sunday. He was conscious of making an effort to entertain. It was not because Bodie was boring him, anything but. Partly it was in response to Bodie’s trip to the theatre, and partly it was wanting to make the most of what could be their last weekend together for a very long time. Bodie was working in the sticks next weekend and after that ... He couldn’t see clearly through the pattern of shifts, and through his certainty that everything was drawing to a close.

He wanted to mark these last days. Maybe they should talk about what was happening, even stop things right here. But he’d never heard of a couple in love doing that, simply couldn’t imagine how the conversation would proceed. And he didn’t have the guts.

The imaginative meals continued for the week that followed. Bodie noticed - he was good about things like that.

“God, I wish I could cook,” he said on Tuesday, halfway through his Fresh Fruit Brulée.

“Well, I didn’t learn by hypnosis, you know. You actually have to get into a kitchen and _do it_ , Bodie.” The tone was sharp, but it was accompanied by a grin.

“Well, come to my place on Sunday, and I’ll get some practice in.”

“Thought you were working Sunday.”

“Got the time-table today. Conference finishes about four.”

“I’ll come at seven then. That give you enough time?”

* * * * *

Doyle had to finish Wednesday’s creation by himself. He was clearing away the starter when Bodie’s bleeper went off. After some swearing and a few terse words over the phone, Bodie disappeared into the night.

Doyle followed him a few minutes later to get a video, determined not to brood or sulk. When that was over he washed up, and thought about what he was going to give Garrett on Saturday. Nothing fancy. She’d be happy with a bag of prawn-cocktail-flavoured crisps and a strawberry yoghurt as long as there was enough wine.

Bodie was back by Thursday night, looking tired and preoccupied; when left to himself he would frown into the middle distance, and his hands would twitch repeatedly as his brain sent partial instructions. It was difficult for Doyle to watch, so he filled the hands with a large drink.

“How did it go last night?”

“Bloody awful. Petrie’s gone. Knifed, and drowned. This is not turning out to be a good year.”

“Were you there?”

A quick shake of the head. “No one was. He’d been doing a stake-out on a pool hall. And he didn’t make a meet last night. Which was why we were called in. Do you know how difficult it is trying to find someone when you have to pretend you’re not looking? Anyway, the River Police found him this morning. Poor sod.” Bodie sighed deeply and then looked up at the ceiling for the space of a few more sighs.

After a large mouthful of alcohol, “I don’t know what Cowley was doing putting him on that case. He must never have been inside one of those places. I bet they spotted Ken the minute he walked in the door. Viking like him - Special Branch written all over him. Should have used me ... and Edwards, maybe. I _told_ him. Told him he should send us in next. Dunno why I bother.” He fell silent, right hand still gripping convulsively on the nearly-empty glass.

Doyle studied him, thinking that Bodie wasn’t as inconspicuous as he seemed to think. Or maybe he was the only one who found Bodie’s intense colouring, and more-intense manner an irresistible attraction. He closed his eyes, imagining Bodie washed up, bloodless, on the filthy banks of the Thames. He’d seen that, once, when he was with the River Police himself. He moved closer and made it clear that he wanted to be held. Bodie was still tense.

“Is the operation still on?”

“Yeah, but I’m not in on it. I dunno what the Cow’s doing. Could be teaching me my place after that business with the hospital. Or could have something else lined up for me. But he won’t tell me. Not a great communicator, my boss.”

“You should meet mine,” said Doyle, thinking that Bodie was a fine one to talk about communication. “When’s the funeral?”

“Whenever Forensics have finished with him. Could be weeks.” He drained his glass, then seemed to force the events of the day from his mind. “How was _your_ day? MacKenzie any quicker off the mark now?”

* * * * *

Doyle gasped along with Laurie Anderson as he got the flat ready for Ruth’s arrival. He was feeling truly light-hearted for the first time in days.

Was Ruth a friend, then? He’d been wondering about that since he’d switched to the car and found he was missing his occasional patrols with her. But he’d never had any women friends - not just as buddies, that was. They’d all been ex-, current, or future girlfriends. Did this mean that he _did_ have designs on Ruth after all? Or was he changing? Maybe this was part of being gay. Who knows.

But he _had_ been missing her. MacKenzie was no more boring that most of the coppers on the relief, but he’d got used to Garrett and her outrageous remarks, and her willingness to talk about _anything_. She saw things so differently too. You might not agree with her, but it got you thinking. And above all, she was straightforward. An enigma, maybe, but he’d never lain awake at night worrying about something she’d said or done. When they were angry with each other they snarled or made amends, and had never yet carried it through to the next day.

Garrett cycled over, with two bottles of red wine in her panniers. She was obviously in the mood for some serious relaxing. After the meal of pasta and fruit salad they sat talking, and listening to her favourite records from Doyle’s collection.

Doyle mentioned the play he’d seen with Bodie the previous Friday, and that produced a long monologue (mostly incomprehensible to him, but it was interesting watching her) about the last play she’d seen at that theatre, and the state of fringe theatre, and what she was hoping for from next month’s Edinburgh Festival. It stopped when she waved her glass too vigorously, and red wine spilt on the light-grey carpet, and they both sprang into action with salt and paper towels.

Afterwards she topped up their glasses, opened the second bottle, and sank bonelessly into the armchair looking speculatively up at the ceiling, thoughts obviously no longer on alternative theatre. Doyle turned the record over. Their eyes met as he sat down on the settee.

She opened her mouth, then closed it.

A slight pause. “Ray? You’re gay, aren’t you?”

For well over a second he had no idea what his face was doing. Then he blinked, closed his mouth, and hoped his voice was under control.

“No.” He shook his head fractionally as he breathed the word, and knew that he had sounded panicked.

The denial was instinctive: he had been too long a copper. There had been no thought of whether he trusted Ruth, or of his most optimistic fantasies for himself and Bodie.

Garrett raised her eyebrows and shrugged in a way that seemed to him to say that she didn’t believe him, but if that was how he wanted to play it ...

How _should_ he play this? His brain was starting to engage now. Should he just ignore it and change the subject? But wouldn’t that look bloody odd, an admission, almost? But did it matter ... that she knew? She liked gays, and she liked him, and she wouldn’t gossip. But she was a crusader with a short temper. He could easily see her using him as an example in an argument - she might not mention his name, but people would figure it out easily enough. Maybe he should have admitted it and asked her to keep silent even if provoked? Maybe he should still do that? And what had put her on to him? Should he find out for the future, just in case?

He’d been silent too long, anyway. And he probably looked as if he was in shock. He took a mouthful of wine, trying not to gulp, and looked up at her.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” More naturally this time, almost casually.

She shrugged again. She used silence nearly as well as Bodie.

“Well, I’m not.” A pause, then slightly worried, like any good straight man, “Do I look gay?”

“I don’t know what gay looks like. You don’t _act_ straight, though.” She saw him frown, and elaborated, seeing the opening she’d hoped for. “You act like a gay man who has to hide it because he’s in an ultra-straight situation, like my brother at Rolls Royce.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll talk about almost anything except your personal life. Most of the other guys either ask me on the first day if I’ve got a boyfriend (and what he thinks of me being in the force), or they go on about their girlfriends. You’ve never said a word.”

“Neither have you.”

“My brother’s taught me not to assume people are straight, or to put people in the situation where they have to either lie or come out. I don’t ask questions about the sex lives of relative strangers.”

“Did it not occur to you that I might have the same ... regard for privacy?” There was an edge to his voice.

“Of course. But that just made me wonder ... where you’d learnt it. It _doesn’t_ come naturally, and you’ve had a ... pretty straight background as far as I can tell. _I_ learnt from Dave. And I’ve decided in my travels that it’s very, very rare.

“I’m not saying it’s equivalent to wearing a pink-triangle tee-shirt. But it started me thinking.”

“And that’s _it_?” Disbelief.

“No. That was the start.” She shrugged. “’s all circumstantial evidence, but I’m surprised no one’s asked you before.”

“ _I’m_ surprised you’d go _this_ far on circumstantial evidence. You’d better raise your standards before you try for the CID.”

“I didn’t think you’d be this upset about it. It’s intended as a compliment, if anything.”

He shook his head while exhaling sharply. “You’ve lived a _very_ sheltered life.”

She studied his face, very serious, then hung her head. “I know. I’m sorry.”

This time he was the one to shrug. It was gratifying to see her so subdued, though it might be put on. He wasn’t quite sure what to do next. Drop it? Or find out what he’d done wrong? First he needed time to think about it.

“Coffee?”

She looked up, still wide-eyed and serious. “Please. Could you make it really strong?”

Did she want to sober up before she did something worse? By the time the kettle had boiled, he’d decided to ask about the rest of the circumstantial evidence. If he didn’t, he’d go crazy wondering, and it was best to ask now, than to bring up the subject some other time.

“Why don’t you tell me about your deductive methods, then? Consider it a bit of extra tutoring. And at the end I’ll tell you where you went wrong. Save you the embarrassment next time.”

“You’re never going to let me forget this, are you? It was just little things that ...”

She swallowed, paused to gather her thoughts and then launched into a speech that sounded like a prepared lecture. Most of it was delivered to her wine glass, or to the arm of the settee, but she glanced at him occasionally - he was sitting forward in the chair, and he kept his eyes on her throughout.

“What it all boiled down to was ... you seemed to make more sense gay than straight or celibate.

“For one thing, I couldn’t see any sign of a straight sex-life. Because the guys at the station think there’s something going on between us, they try to wind me up by telling me that you’re two-timing me with some ... friend of Terry’s girlfriend. Alison, they said. They seemed pretty definite about it. But you’ve never, ever mentioned her, and that seemed odd ... I mean, if you _were_ going out with her.

“And then there was Bodie.” She saw him swallow, and looked away quickly to hide the gleam in her eye.

“He’s the only friend you ever talk about. And you obviously think a lot of him. And see a lot of him too. Most blokes are very casual about their male friends - at least I think so. They like to act as if their friends aren’t that important to them. I mean, as if they don’t have the power to hurt them or anything. As if they’re just ... someone to prop a bar up with, or to play squash with.

“But it’s not like that with you and Bodie. You were miserable when you read that letter saying he was going to be away. And your face lit up when you told me he’d come back. I got the impression he was practically living here.” She was sure she didn’t imagine the dart of his eyes towards the bedroom. Slight, but still a reaction.

She took another mouthful of wine, then leaned forward to push the plunger on the cafetière.

“So, there was Bodie: a man in your life, but no woman. And then there was the way you acted about Gay Pride. I was sure you weren’t a homophobe. It just didn’t fit in, and anyway you’re too detached to let anything get to you like that. But you were so uptight about it. You were pretending you weren’t there, that none of it was happening. And that didn’t make sense unless you were gay yourself, and frightened and uncomfortable ... and maybe a bit jealous.”

He was blinking rapidly, obviously far from calm. Was he about to come up with a story to explain his attitude on the march? She didn’t want to hear it, and didn’t want to make him say anything. She hadn’t meant to make things worse - anything but. She’d just felt relaxed, and grateful to him, and a bit reckless.

“But obviously I was wrong. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you or anything. I just wanted to ... offer my support.”

She ran a hand through her hair, wincing, and managing a good simulation of embarrassment herself, stumbling over her next words in her haste. “I’m sorry. I expect you’re furious with me for ... speculating about you like that. You should be. It’s ... bloody cheek, really.

“But ...” She glanced up, and smiled briefly and uncertainly. “Look, honestly, like I said, it was meant as a compliment. Can we just forget I said anything?”

He got up to refill their glasses and pour the coffee. “You have to hear where you went wrong first. I _was_ going out with Alison. Since ... the beginning of March. She was on the same physiotherapy course as Terry’s girlfriend. But she’s working in Somerset now.” He shrugged, deciding to leave it at that.

“As for Bodie. Well, you’ll understand that we went through a lot together in Africa. When someone saves your life, it seems pretty pointless to act as if you met playing darts at the local. We _are_ close. I miss him when he’s not around. And he’s had ...” He stared at the ceiling, counting. “... eight girlfriends in the time I’ve known him.”

“OK. Thanks, Ray. I’ll make sure there isn’t a next time.” Then she flipped her mood over. “Frogger? I’ll let you win.”

“Hah. You wish.” But he wasn’t finished yet. “Ruth, it’s no fun for a gay copper. As you say, there have got to be some around, but they keep it _bloody_ quiet. Really, they can’t afford to have your support, however much you’d like to offer it.”

She nodded energetically, having taken the point, and they moved over to the TV.

When Garrett left around one, clutching panniers and bike lights, they said a friendly goodbye, and felt no dread of facing one another at work on Monday.

Doyle went to bed thoughtful, but not churning with anxiety. He half-wished he’d said, “Yes,” though it probably didn’t matter very much.

If she’d asked in March, after their anniversary ... Then he would have been glad to admit it ... eventually, probably hearing her out and then congratulating her on her powers of observation. But now things were more complicated, things were on the point of breaking up, and there would be more pain than contentment in saying out loud, “Yes, Bodie’s my lover.” That made him sad, but he was too tired to dwell on it. At least he hadn’t said, “He isn’t my lover.” That would have hurt even more.

Had he convinced her? He didn’t know, but he was sure she’d keep her mouth shut. She had been trying hard at the end, but - to borrow her deductive method - her behaviour made just as much sense if you assumed that she still thought he was gay, but had decided that it would be less awkward all round to drop the subject and pretend to be convinced. She was just lucky she’d picked him as her subject.

* * * * *

He arrived at Bodie’s a few minutes before seven. Bodie looked embarrassed when asked what he was cooking, and admitted that he was relying on Marks and Spencers once again. Doyle had expected nothing else.

Seeing Bodie moving around in the kitchen, fetching glasses, checking the oven, grinning as he leaned back against the sink, it was hard to believe that this healthy, confident man cried in his sleep every night. Doyle grinned back at his lover, liking him very much at that moment.

Despite everything, there was a simplicity about Bodie that could be very reassuring if, like Ray Doyle, you had an imagination that forced you to see each issue from at least four different viewpoints. Of course, that simplicity could also be disastrous and depressing if you were in opposition to it, as Doyle had also discovered.

He walked over to Bodie and put his arms around him and they kissed. There was little passion and it seemed to Doyle that they were reassuring each other, and reminding themselves that they were still lovers. Maybe that was a lot to read into a kiss of greeting, and a negative reading besides, but that was the way he was. As they went through to the sitting room, Doyle thought more about Bodie’s simplicity and his own compulsion to complicate, and wondered whether they explained the way he kept changing his mind about Bodie. To Doyle’s perception, Bodie’s character was black and white, with a thin line between the extremes, so you saw one aspect or the other, but never two together. It was like looking at a thin coin with radically different faces - a slight shift of the head or hand reveals one or the other, but they can never meet.

This was one of the sides, the black side maybe - a warm, velvety darkness that gentled Doyle’s restless mind and filled him with affection. The other side was acid-white and it was the side Doyle saw during arguments, or after wordless sex; it was the territory of the nightmares, and it was stark and comfortless, and Doyle’s imagination skittered backwards and forwards through it, feverishly awake.

Yes, their relationship made sense like that. There was even an inevitability about it all, though not a cheering one. It couldn’t be an accident that they’d met; someone wanted to see the fireworks.

What was that nursery rhyme? “When they were good, they were very, very good. But when they were bad, they were horrid.” They were special together, but there’s special-plus, and there’s special-minus, and it takes a more-special kind of masochism to try and live with the two once you’ve worked out what’s happening. Not a cheering thought at all. But it _was_ an honest analysis of his reactions to Bodie. Bodie’s reactions to him were probably similar - had Bodie come to the same conclusions?

Doyle wasn’t a masochist, and unless one of them had extensive rework to his personality, they had no future together. The next argument would finish it. Was it cowardice to wait, and to hope for a long wait? So - he was a coward.

They cuddled on the settee. Bodie was unusually relaxed. The night apart had been good for both of them.

Bodie’s pillow had been damp in the morning, but he remembered nothing of the dream. And he’d been spared being shaken awake to a knowledge of his own worthlessness, and to Ray’s misery, frustration, and growing impatience - it had helped.

He’d missed him, too, felt jealous of Garrett. And realised that he wasn’t going to let Ray walk out. Yes, he ought to, it would be best for Ray. But that was his brain’s view of the situation, and Bodie had never relied on that organ in an emergency. His instincts took over when he was threatened, and they were insisting that he keep Ray, or get him back, anyway.

* * * * *

Bodie might not have put much into the cooking, but he cut no corners with the presentation. The meal started with melon, and the ginger came in a special silver shaker.

Doyle thought, “All or nothing. That’s Bodie. Curry in the carton, or a Harrod’s ginger shaker. Nothing in between. I’d have left the stuff in the spice jar.”

Marks and Spencers did an excellent Chicken Kiev, and great salads, and they took their time over the main course, and then sat talking and sipping wine while they waited until they could do justice to the dessert of raspberries and cream.

Doyle said, “You know, I haven’t been to the CI5 pub for ages. How is everyone? And what _is_ your local these days?”

Bodie started filling him in on the adventures of the lads, with many digressions, and a few new names. The big news was that Lynch (not a regular at the pub) was getting married and was transferring to the safer B Squad. Bodie’s tone, if not his words, made it obvious how the real men regarded such a move. Doyle was not amused, so Bodie left the big news, and moved to the safer topic of sharing a small obbo post with Anson and Anson’s nicotine addiction. When Doyle smiled, Bodie got more animated, wanting to make him laugh, and started acting out McCabe’s last showdown with Anson.

The waving wine glass reminded Doyle of Garrett the night before. When Bodie had finished the story and they’d both stopped laughing, Doyle took a few seconds to recover, and then said, “Oh, you know Ruth came over for a meal last night ...?”

Bodie nodded, eyebrows raised. Of course he knew.

Doyle smiled and shrugged lightly, “Well, she asked me if I was gay.” At Bodie’s look of frozen horror, he quickly added, “I said no, of course.”

His smile of reassurance faded as it became obvious that the other man was oblivious to it. He leaned forward across the small table, and said loudly, “Hey, Bodie. There’s nothing to worry about. Her brother’s gay. She likes gays - she likes me. She just wanted to help. And when I said no, she didn’t push it. There’s no need to panic.”

Finally, Bodie moved: he put his glass down clumsily. Doyle saw him swallow, and could hear his quickened breathing. He looked frightened and frightening, and Doyle began to feel apprehensive; the coin had just flipped around, and they were in the glare of the searchlight. He never knew what to do when Bodie got like this. Maybe if he just stayed calm and tried to reassure him. Bodie might look dangerous, but he wasn’t, not really.

Bodie was barely aware of Doyle. He was planning Ruth Garrett’s death. It wouldn’t be easy. Have to make it look like an accident. Or a mugging maybe. She knew him. She’d probably get into a car with him. It was still going to be very difficult. Damn her. Damn Murphy. Why couldn’t they keep their cleverness to themselves? Why couldn’t they leave him alone? How had they found out? He hadn’t asked Murphy.

Then there was a glimmer of hope. Maybe she _hadn’t_ worked it all out. Maybe she just thought he was a friend of Ray’s. Maybe he was safe still.

He focused on Doyle, who was stating again that there was nothing to worry about, and interrupted him with a harsh, accusing, “How did she find out?”

Doyle sighed, a mixture of exasperation with Bodie, and embarrassment at the story he was about to tell. He _had_ been careless, he supposed, and Bodie would probably be right to be annoyed with him. Still, he’d never asked to live a double life. He repeated Ruth’s argument using her words, more or less.

He could see that Bodie was not pleased. The CI5 man frowned deeply when he said he’d never mentioned Alison to Ruth. When he described her observations of the two of them, Bodie glared at him, jaw clenched, breathing loud and tense, almost a growl. Doyle thought this was over-doing it: Marlon Brando might be able to get away with this kind of inarticulate brooding, but Bodie didn’t have the bone-structure for it. He dealt with Gay Pride in a few words, and then repeated his reassurances for the third time.

For the third time, Bodie was not listening. He was locking the secrets away again, placating them and sealing the box with the promise of the death of the intruder. It might not be soon, but it would come. That was under control. Now to deal with Ray.

“You wanted her to find out, didn’t you?”

“No. I. Didn’t.” He’d meant to stay calm, but it wasn’t working out like that.

“Then why didn’t you do it properly? Why’d you think you were going out with Alison, for God’s sake? It was to tell people, to show people. Unless you just liked the variety.”

“I’m not going to respond to that, Bodie. You don’t deserve any kind of ego boost. There was never a good chance to tell her about Alison. She heard, didn’t she? Isn’t that good enough?”

“Obviously not.”

* * * * *

They were both quiet for a while.

Doyle rested his chin on his hands and looked at the cruet set and the label on the wine bottle. He wished he hadn’t told Bodie about Ruth. The problem with waiting for an argument to end their affair was that it meant they would part in anger, disliking one another. Maybe a quick break on an ordinary day would have been better. That thought restored his perspective. He didn’t need to win any battles with Bodie, when there was nothing to fight for. He topped their glasses up.

“We’re going to have to be _much_ more careful in future, Ray. We can’t afford to have anyone else find out. You’ll have to find another woman soon, and be seen with her more. I’ll give you back your key. Maybe we shouldn’t spend the night together anymore. There is a risk.”

“Oh, come _on_ , Bodie.” Doyle had no patience with this. What was the phrase? Re-arranging deck-chairs on the deck of the Titanic. That was it exactly.

Bodie misunderstood what lay behind the other man’s objection. “I know you don’t like this cloak-and-dagger stuff and I don’t blame you. But we both knew what we were getting into from the beginning. We’ve done pretty well for the first year, but we’ve both made some mistakes and it’s time we learnt from them.”

Doyle looked at him in exaggerated disbelief. Bodie chose to see it as rapt attention.

“I know I said at first that we should establish that we were friends, but that hasn’t worked. We can’t pull it off. Ruth just met me once and worked it all out. We can’t let that happen again. I don’t think you should come to the pub anymore. And don’t mention me to any of your colleagues.”

Doyle looked out of the window. “I don’t think I can live like that.”

“You’ll get used to it, I promise. Maybe it’ll only have to be for a while, anyway. If your next woman works out well, and MacKenzie minds his own business, we’ll probably be able to relax.”

“You speak as if it’s all my fault. _You’re_ the one in the top security job. _You’re_ the one who insists on all this crap. But you’re no better.” Doyle was perfectly calm; he’d discussed this with Bodie many times in his head, and now seemed the time to do it for real.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Murphy figured out that we were close friends, didn’t he? You remember he was asking me some odd questions? He must have had some help from you, ‘cos I barely spoke to him.

“And when you took us to that place in Covent Garden back in March. Do you know we were the only table of two men? And we couldn’t keep our eyes off each other. They must have spotted us the minute we walked in the door.

“And when you came round to me after being gassed, when you knew CI5 would be looking for you. That really was stupid. You could have lead Cowley straight to us.”

The imaginary versions of this conversation had ended with Bodie laughing and agreeing that there could be no one watching them, no reason to worry. In the real version Bodie was frowning and determined.

“You’re right. We both have to be much more careful. I’ll give you your key right now. And there are some of your tapes in the car. You’d better take them with you.” He stood up.

Doyle stood up too, and blocked his way to the bedroom and the jacket that held his keys.

“No, Bodie. This isn’t going to work.”

“It will. You’ll see. You and me - we can cope with anything. We’re a great team.” He ended with a grin that had been known to work even on Cowley.

“No. We make each other happy for about a week every month, and for the rest of the time we’re either working different shifts, or at opposite ends of the country, or tearing one another to pieces. We’re a disaster. Face it.”

“But I love you. And you love me, don’t you? We’re supposed to be together. I know you’re pissed off with all this, but I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

Despite himself, Doyle laughed - not kindly - and said, “How? You gonna shower me with expensive presents? Think up new ways of making those passionate declarations?” At the expression on Bodie’s face he swallowed, and was ashamed. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to hurt you. I do love you, very much. I wish more than anything that things could be right between us. But I think what I really need is a home. Stability and peace, I guess. And you can’t offer that. You _know_ you can’t. We’re neither of us going to change. It’s never going to get any better.” He dropped his voice and finished as gently as he could, “Let’s just accept it and cut our losses, eh?”

Bodie had closed his eyes. His head was lowered, and one hand clutched the edge of the table. Without opening his eyes he said, “You don’t mean that. You can’t.”

“I do. I’m sorry. I’ve known for a while that it couldn’t go on for much longer. I suppose I should have finished it earlier, but ... I do love you, I do like you, and ... I was waiting for the next argument to do it for me.”

“You can’t leave me.”

“I have to. We’re not doing each other any good. We have to accept that and get on with our lives. I don’t know if we should even try to be friends. Things are so complicated between us. It would only hurt us. Let’s stop while we still love each other. We’ll get over it. You know that.”

He was steeling himself, waiting for Bodie to start crying, wondering how he’d find the strength to walk away from him.

Suddenly Bodie’s head came up and his eyes opened. He stared intensely at Doyle, as if trying to pin him in place. His voice was half-pleading, half-demanding: “I _need_ you.”

Doyle shook his head, trying to control an indulgent smile. Bodie reminded him of himself when Ann had left. People were predictable, especially in the progress of an affair. “You don’t, you know. You think you do, but that doesn’t last. You’ll get over it. You’ll find someone you don’t have to hide, someone without my foul temper. Six months from now you won’t remember what I looked like.”

Bodie shook his head violently for two seconds. When he spoke he was urgent and desperate. “You don’t understand. I _need_ you. I _need_ to be your lover. It’s the most important thing for me. You don’t know how ... wonderful it’s been ... how wonderful it is that you want me ... that you love me. You’re so beautiful and clever and ... perfect.” His voice dropped, he looked away and swallowed. “It’s a miracle that you’d have anything to do with me.”

Doyle frowned, and opened his mouth to tell Bodie not to be ridiculous.

But Bodie looked up again, determination in his face, and said quietly but clearly, “You make me feel human. You make me feel it wasn’t a mistake I was ever born.”

Doyle’s mouth stayed open, but he did not speak - he could not.

He had had no idea. He had been sleeping with the man for over a year, closer than he’d ever been to another person, listening to the turmoil in his sub-conscious, and he hadn’t guessed. He hadn’t even come close. Even his vivid imagination hadn’t been able to create this picture of self-hatred.

Had it been like this for him all his life? Oh God.

He was aware of all of his contradictory emotions about Bodie, strengthened, but the balance unchanged: love, pity, wonder at the survival of Bodie’s ability to love, and helplessness. Bodie deserved to be healed, but Ray Doyle was not equipped to do it. He had known that before, and he was more certain now.

But he could point him towards help. It would be easier to leave, knowing Bodie was in good hands. Bodie had been this honest with him. The time must be right for more honesty.

Bodie was waiting patiently, hopefully. Doyle wasn’t sure how to approach what he had to say. He closed his mouth, paused for several seconds, then began.

“Bodie, I’m just an ordinary copper. What you’ve just said ... I ... I know you mean it, and that’s ... an incredible tribute. But I can’t accept it. It terrifies me. It’s a terrible responsibility, and I’m not equipped to deal with it. That’s one of the reasons I feel we have to finish. I know you’ve got problems, and I’ve discovered that I can’t help you with them at all, and that’s ... more than I can stand.”

“You help me by loving me. By seeing something worthwhile in me.”

“You _are_ worthwhile. You are ... _admirable_. But I can’t help you if you don’t believe that yourself. I can’t be your self-worth for you. It doesn’t work like that. I think you can learn, but I’m not the person to teach you. I don’t know how.”

“What do you want me to do? I’ll do anything you tell me to do.” He was quite serious, no desperation, and Doyle knew that the time was right.

“Go to an Incest Survivor’s Group.” Bodie stared at him quite blankly, and Doyle thought he hadn’t understood, so he continued, “I know you were raped by your father. I think - because of what I’ve done to you - you need some extra help in dealing with it now. I think a Group would be best for you. I can get contact numbers, and -“

Bodie’s expression hadn’t changed at all.

“Bodie?”

It was like talking to a statue. It was as if Bodie had fled. Doyle had never seen shock quite like this before. He moved forward to touch Bodie’s arms lightly, and said gently, soothingly, “It’s alright, Bodie. There’s nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. You don’t have to do anything you -“

Bodie’s eyes had focused on him. He smiled slightly and nodded, intending to reassure.

“Get out.”

“Wh-“

“Get out.” Bodie pushed him away, not gently. He stumbled against the table, and his glass fell over.

“Get out.” Bodie was shouting now. “Didn’t you hear me? Fucking copper. You - Fucking copper. Get out. Get away from me.”

Doyle stood speechless once again. He’d made a terrible mistake. He backed away, eyes wide with fear.

Bodie turned away to the armchair, grabbed Doyle’s leather jacket, and threw it at him. Doyle caught it, but didn’t put it on.

“I’m not leaving,” he said, voice shaking. “I’m not leaving you like this. I’d never forgive myself.”

“What d’you think I’m going to do? Slash my wrists? Swallow my gun? Don’t worry - I’m not the type. You can fuck off with a clear conscience. Right now.”

“No. We have to talk. You _do_ need help, Bodie.”

Bodie looked past him, towards the front door. His voice became very quiet. “From now on, you don’t exist. I can’t hear you, and I won’t talk to you.” Then he turned away.

He picked up Doyle’s glass from the table and went into the kitchen. Doyle followed, not knowing what else to do. Bodie put the glass in the flip-top bin; it slid slowly to the bottom along the billows of the newly-fitted bag. Then he opened the refrigerator and took out a fine ceramic bowl full of raspberries. Doyle flinched, expecting to receive the bowl full in the face. But Bodie was ignoring him as he’d promised, and the bowl too went into the bin, followed by a thud and a crunch of breaking glass. When the jug of cream went the same way, Doyle accepted that he could do no good, and he let himself out.


	13. Heat-Trace - Chapter 11

## Chapter 11

Bodie did not go to bed that night. After Doyle left he went back to the sitting room, and sat on the settee. His eyes were open and directed to the coffee table, but he saw nothing.

He stayed there till morning. He might have slept, but he wasn’t aware of it. There was no escape from William this time, no protection for William either. All of the secrets were out, and he couldn’t put them back again, couldn’t find Bodie either.

All order was gone. His brain felt as if it was breaking down, the barriers split open, his skull turning into a bowl of blood. He stayed completely still. If he moved he would feel it washing backwards and forwards, hear the splashing.

Ray knew the oldest, worst secret, and Bodie couldn’t claim it back from him. It was still out there, in someone else’s brain, and it would never come home, never let itself be locked up safe. Bodie saw his secret inside Ray’s head, a putrid phosphorescence, leaving a trail as Ray moved. The trail must cover half of London. William had no secrets any more, and what did that leave him? What did it make him?

He did not ask himself those questions directly. He was incapable of discussing anything with himself. His conscious mind concentrated only on keeping still, but that was not difficult since his whole being was paralysed.

All his life, it seemed, he’d known what to do if the secret got out: kill. It was simple, it was perfect. It was revenge, it was the reclaiming of the secret, and it was action, a way of bringing Bodie back, and restoring order.

It had worked with Murphy, and it would have worked with Garrett, and that was only to protect a minor secret. For the oldest, worst secret ... Anyone but Doyle would have died on the spot, and Bodie would have decided later what to do with the body.

It had been close, even with Ray. His brain had despatched the order for the killing blow to the neck, but - somehow - it had been interrupted. Something in him knew that this was a death that would not help.

So he was paralysed. Quite without volition. He would stay here on the settee until he starved to death. He would do nothing for William, neither take him to bed, nor feed him.

* * * * *

At half past eight the next morning, the ‘phone rang. After seven rings he’d worked out what it was. It was a demand. Someone wanted him to do something. If he did what they wanted then that would make him real, wouldn’t it? A bit real, anyway, like a computer that just did what you told it to. It could look like life sometimes.

Very carefully he got up and moved to the ‘phone. His brain stayed still; it must have clotted during the night.

“Hello.”

“Get your arse over here, 3.7. I don’t care how good she is. If you’re here in half-an-hour I _might_ not tell Cowley.”

It was Anson. Bodie couldn’t quite remember his name, couldn’t remember the address of “here”. But there was a picture in his mind of the flat with the cameras and the tape recorders, and somehow he knew where it was, and how to get there. He put the phone down.

Anson whistled as 3.7 let himself in. “She must be something else. You look worse than after a round with Towser.”

Bodie ignored him, but Anson had expected nothing else. Bodie never spoke to him unless he had to, or to complain about the cigars. In fact he was better that day than he had been during the beginning of the week, just sat at the window looking out, not saying a word.

Anson read his paper and chain-smoked, and reported periodically to Cowley that nothing was happening. He offered to take over a couple of times, but Bodie still ignored him. Maybe it was his way of making up for over-sleeping, making sure Anson didn’t tell Cowley? Lucas and McCabe relieved them in the evening, with their usual routine of “Go home now, boys. The professionals are here.” Bodie did as he was told, and went home.

The urgent pain in his bladder felt like a command, so he obeyed, and then sat again on the settee. This time he knew that he slept, because Anson’s phone-call at seven on Thursday morning found him half-lying on the settee, his spine twisted and protesting.

“Hello, 3.7. This is your early morning call. In return for this service you take first watch.”

* * * * *

“Goes for the Designer Stubble, does she? Or doesn’t she leave you enough energy to shave? Or to wash either, for that matter? Or is this a new protest about the cigars?”

Bodie looked at him without expression. 3.7 always had gone in for the Great Stone Face. Anson was not deterred.

“Don’t let the Cow see you like that. Do me a favour and tidy yourself up, you’re making me itch.” He fetched an electric razor from the sports bag he carried on all obbos, and held it out, expecting it to be flung across the room. It was only a spare, and it was worth losing it to get 3.7 going. To his surprise it was taken and used. For the rest of the day they ignored each other again.

At six in the evening, Cowley called Anson on the R/T and they had a long conversation which sounded to Bodie like the buzzing of insects on the other side of a glass door, or foreign radio stations picked up while spinning the dial. When it was over, Anson spoke to him. “Well, tomorrow you’ll have to cope without my dazzling conversation.”

Bodie turned round to look at him and then turned away.

Anson continued, “Set your alarm for tomorrow, and smarten up _before_ you get here. Reeves isn’t as generous and considerate as I am.” He thought he saw Bodie nod, but that must have been his imagination. It was probably just him muttering to himself. Something like, “Shut up, you wanker, or I’ll smash your face in,” no doubt.

Lucas and McCabe did their usual routine when they arrived. they seemed to discover new wit in it with every repetition. Anson told them gleefully that he’d been put onto a different assignment, and disappeared into the night, followed slowly by 3.7.

There was a letter on Bodie’s doormat. He noticed it because he stepped on it, and his foot slid. It was an Access bill. What was left of his mind registered that this was another command - “Give us your money” - and he picked it up and opened it.

It was the most complicated thing he’d had to do so far: find his chequebook, a pen, and a stamp, put the numbers into words, write the name “W.A.P. Bodie” (who was that?), fill in the Giro form, find a post-box.

As he dropped the letter through the slot, the command ended, and he stood by the box for over a minute, not knowing what to do next. He needed someone to tell him. He needed an order. He frowned in pained concentration as he thought back over the day. Lucas and McCabe had told him to go home. He’d done that. Was there anything else? Anson. Anson had told him to set his alarm, and to smarten up the next morning.

He went back to the flat and into the bedroom. He set the alarm for seven. That would be alright, wouldn’t it? That left him sitting on the bed. There was no other order. He was sure of that.

He sat until his back started to ache, and then he lay down, stretch out on top of the bed, fully dressed, as still and composed as a corpse. He felt like that, a corpse on view to anyone who might pass. No secrets any more. No power to protect them if he had.

It wouldn’t be any different when he was really dead. The undertakers would wash him and tend to him and dress him. He’d be totally exposed, his body no longer his own - but then it never had been. They would put make-up on his face, too, to make him look human. It warmed him, almost, to think of them taking the trouble to try, though he could have told them that it was impossible. He’d rot quickly, no matter what they did. There was so much filth: he could feel it hot and sticky inside his arse; could feel drying blood tight on his hands, and the tickling feet of the flies as they landed to feed. He closed his eyes, and eventually he slept.

He got up when the alarm woke him, showered and shaved as Anson had told him, and dressed in clean clothes. As he was rinsing his mouth out after brushing his teeth, he started gulping down the water, crouching over the sink for nearly a minute. This wasn’t a conscious decision to drink - he was barely aware of what he was doing. There _was_ a pain in his stomach, but he didn’t really recognise it as hunger, and he wouldn’t have pandered to it if he had. Besides, it was subsumed under the sickening ache in his arse.

He arrived before Reeves, so had to deal with Lucas and McCabe on his own. They tried to talk to him. He said “Yes” and “No” a few times, and nodded when they spoke, but he didn’t know if he did these things at the right times. They didn’t give him any orders, so it was difficult - they expected him to think. He saw them look at one another and raise their eyebrows, but it didn’t occur to him that they might be discussing him; he could barely comprehend _verbal_ communication. He took his place by the window, and gazed through the binoculars, his concentration obviously elsewhere. The partners left him alone, and talked among themselves until Reeves arrived.

It was only the third time Bodie and Reeves had worked together, though Reeves had been in CI5 for over three years. He’d joined CI5 on the B Squad, but a year ago he and his wife had separated, and he’d been moved to the A Squad. He seemed to be enjoying the change, and was certainly enjoying being single again; he was now part of the core of the group of CI5 social drinkers.

Anson had been maligning him the previous day; most people found him far less irritating than Anson. He had a naval background, and had joined CI5 from the SBS. Most of his conversations with Bodie had been about the differences between the SBS and the SAS; the mild rivalry was guaranteed to keep them occupied for a few hours.

Or so Reeves had thought. He wondered if he’d offended 3.7 last time, but the man wasn’t supposed to be touchy, and he couldn’t think of anything he’d done. And the man didn’t seem to be rebuffing him, just ... unaware of him, somehow. Odd.

He left Bodie at the window during the morning while he read the papers and played patience. The boredom made him especially hungry, so he took out his sandwiches early, just gone noon. He looked around curiously for Bodie’s bag, wondering when 3.7 would insist on a break; he couldn’t see it anywhere.

“D’you bring anything to eat?”

There was a pause. “No.”

“You on a diet, or something? That’s not like you.” Maybe he’d forgotten. Maybe something else had come up that morning. Reeves smirked to himself; a large appetite was only one part of 3.7’s reputation.

There was no reply to his question, which didn’t surprise him. Bodie was so stubborn he’d starve rather than suggest he wasn’t perfect.

Reeves was feeling generous, so he ate only half of his sandwiches, then poured out coffee for both of them. He got up and took Bodie’s lunch over to the window. “Here, let me take over. I’d better earn my keep. And get this down you. I brought too much today.”

Bodie obeyed him.

The sandwiches were salami and cream cheese, the coffee strong and black. Bodie wolfed them down, then sat staring at the newspaper.

A minute later he knew that he was going to be violently sick. He hadn’t eaten for nearly three days, and his stomach was objecting to such an awakening. He lurched out of the room, finding the bathroom by accident.

Reeves felt his own gorge rise in sympathy. It sounded as if Bodie’s intestines were trying to escape. It _couldn’t_ be food poisoning - it had been too quick, and _he_ felt fine. 3.7 must be ill. Really ill. That would explain why he was so listless. It must be taking all of his energy to keep going. Idiot. Why hadn’t he called in sick? Did he think he was indispensable?

When Bodie came back, even paler than usual, Reeves said, “Are you sure you should be working? You look awful.”

Bodie just looked at him. He seemed almost dazed.

“Do you want to go home? Call in sick?”

Bodie shook his head.

“Well, I can’t force you. But I’m doing all the work this afternoon. You’re not at your most alert, are you?” Bodie didn’t respond, but sat down again at the table, his face turned from Reeves, and held the paper. He turned the pages periodically, but he saw nothing. In the evening they were relieved by Mitchell and Dixon, two new recruits, chaperoned by Taylor.

As they made their way down the alley to their cars, Reeves said, “You will go home and have a quiet break, won’t you? Shift whatever bug you’ve got.”

Bodie nodded, but with no more energy and conviction than he’d showed during the rest of the day, and Reeves was still worried. When Bodie had driven off, he called HQ and asked to speak to Cowley. He told his boss what had happened.

Cowley heard him out and said, “You’re right, he is stubborn. And he hates admitting he’s ill. Regards it as a waste of a sick day. But he’s got the next few days off. That should be enough, but we’ll keep an eye on him on Monday.”

* * * * *

There was another letter waiting for Bodie at his flat. This one had a hand-written envelope, but it might be a bill, it might tell him what to do. He opened it.

It was from Doyle, a long letter. He read through it quickly, looking for the orders he needed. There was one in the first paragraph: “Please let me know you’re alright. Write me a letter, a postcard, anything.”

He nodded to himself. Yes, he could do that. What else was there? But there was nothing else. The rest of the letter didn’t make any sense to him.

He dropped the letter on the floor, and fetched what he needed in order to write to Ray. He frowned at the blank sheet for a while, puzzled, then he remembered the exact words of the order and wrote and sealed his letter.

After he’d posted the letter he went straight back to the flat, set the alarm, and lay on the bed.

* * * * *

When he arrived at the flat on Thursday morning there were six people in it: Mitchell, Dixon and Taylor; and Merton, Sims and Macklin. He felt no surprise, only vaguely realised that something was wrong when they looked at him in alarm, and started asking if the Cow had sent him, if something was up. He didn’t understand, so said nothing.

Then Macklin said, “I thought you had a few days off. You worked last weekend, didn’t you?” and he knew that he wasn’t supposed to be here. He’d made a mistake.

He turned and left.

Macklin caught up with him in the alley. “What’s going on, Bodie?”

That question was too complicated. He ignored it.

“Were you checking up on us?”

Easier. “No.”

“Then why are you wasting your day off like this? Did you leave something in the flat?”

“No.”

Macklin stared at him, looking directly into his eyes. After a moment he said slowly, “Do you know why you came here this morning?”

Bodie blinked at him, and opened his mouth. There were two answers: “No” and “Yes” but something told him he shouldn’t say either, though he didn’t know why. He frowned, blinked again, and shut his mouth.

Macklin kept on studying him, then reached out to touch his forehead with the back of his hand. Bodie didn’t react at all.

“ _Are_ you alright?”

Bodie knew the answer to that. “I’m alright.”

“You don’t look it. You look completely out of it. Go home and get some rest.”

Before he went back to the flat to start his shift with the trainees, Macklin went to his car and got through to Cowley on the radio. Cowley told him about Reeves’ report, and asked, “Do you think he’s ill?”

“I don’t know. There were no signs of a fever. I couldn’t smell drink, and his pupils seemed normal. But ... I don’t think he understood half my questions. It reminded me of severe shock, though I know that seems unlikely. He might pull out of it over the weekend, but you shouldn’t let him back on the streets without a thorough check up. At the moment he doesn’t know what day it is. Literally.”

“Very well, Brian. We’ll leave him alone for the weekend, and I’ll call him in on Monday.”

* * * * *

Bodie spent the next four days lying on his bed. The alarm clock was still set for seven, and when it went off, he’d shower and shave and drink from the tap and change his clothes, and then go straight back to the bedroom. Apart from that he didn’t leave the room except to empty his bladder. He didn’t have any other orders that he was sure about.

Sometimes he slept, when the pain in his body and mind would let him, but the transition was slight. There were dreams, but his grasp on reality was so weakened that he couldn’t identify them as dreams, so on awakening he felt neither relief nor disappointment. He had few thoughts that could be put into words, just a mute, merciless awareness of all that he was, and a feeling that he was being eaten away inside; it was the liberated secrets, or the parts that had not been taken away by Ray, filling him like an underground lake of acid rain, killing, and then dissolving.

* * * * *

At ten to eight on Monday morning the phone rang. It was the phone in his bedroom, the direct line to CI5, but Bodie was not aware of that difference.

Cowley said, “3.7, I hear you have been ill recently.”

There was a pause, which Bodie left unfilled, as there had been no question.

“I trust you behaved sensibly and had a quiet weekend.”

Another pause.

“Bodie, are you still feeling ill?”

“No.”

“Hmm. Well, given your behaviour last time I sent you to hospital, you’ll understand if I don’t take your word for that. I have made an appointment for you with Doctor Garston. Report to him at nine at the latest. He will decide if you are fit to return to duty.”

Bodie stood by the phone, panic adding a sharpness to the great dull pain in his stomach. He had an order, but he didn’t know what it meant. Who was Doctor Garston? Where was he?

The panic disordered his thoughts even more, and he felt his little stock of facts tumbling out of reach. He made a deliberate effort to calm down, and for the first time tried to think, to search through his memories.

He thought about hospitals, and had an image of lying in a white room, wanting, needing to be somewhere else. The memory hurt, and he knew that if he followed it further it would hurt even more, but he also knew it was not what he was looking for, so he left it and searched again. He was in another white room, but this time he was standing up, and a man was holding his hand, looking at it, pushing the fingers to and fro. He didn’t feel any recognition for the man, but he did for the room, and after concentrating on the image for a few more seconds, he found a route to the room.

He was safe now, he knew what to do.

He arrived at HQ at quarter to nine. A few people greeted him as he walked to the white room. He nodded at them.

It was a thorough examination, even more thorough than the usual CI5 treatment after injury or illness, and _they_ cut few corners.

Bodie didn’t understand why the voice on the phone had ordered him here, didn’t associate it with Reeves’ concern after he’d been sick, or with Macklin’s scrutiny on Saturday. For Bodie, the only reason left was the secrets, the lost secrets. It made perfect sense to him that William should be ordered to this cold, starkly-lit, metal-filled room and told to strip. William expected to be naked, and stared at, and to have someone do incomprehensible things to him.

Blood was taken from his arm, cold metal was put to his chest, and in his mouth and ears. He was told to urinate, and told to stand on a little platform. Questions were asked. He answered them when he could.

He had no idea how long it took. When it was over he was told to dress. The man left him alone in the room. He stood where he’d been left, and eventually the man came back.

“Well, 3.7, your body seems to be functioning as efficiently as ever, from this brief examination. But I don’t think you’re quite over whatever bug you had. You’re still feeling a bit thick-headed, aren’t you? Not your usual lively self.”

Bodie nodded, though the question didn’t make any sense to him; there was no doubt about the answer that was expected.

“I’ve recommended to Major Cowley that you be put on light duties until you shift this. I’ll want to see you again before I give you full clearance.”

Bodie looked at him. He thought that there was an order in there, but he couldn’t turn it into a useful form. This silent acceptance was so unlike 3.7’s usual belligerent impatience that Doctor Garston had to fight to stop himself gasping in astonishment. God, he couldn’t wait to do those blood tests. Before he rushed back to his lab, he asked, “Are you eating properly? Your weight’s down.”

Bodie nodded again, perfectly sincere. In his view he _was_ eating properly; he was feeding William exactly as he deserved.

“Well, you can allow yourself a few treats. You’re actually below the ideal for a change.”

* * * * *

Bodie stood in the corridor outside the white room. What was he supposed to do now? Light duties? What did that mean? Should he go back to the flat with the cameras? But he’d made a mistake there, hadn’t he? Maybe they didn’t want him to be there any more. Maybe that was what light duties meant. Maybe he should go back to his flat. Lie on the bed. Maybe the man would call him there and give him his next order. It seemed the best thing to do. It seemed the only thing to do.

He started following the route back to his car. He passed a woman at a desk, and she called his name. He turned round. She handed over an envelope.

“This is your assignment for the moment. The Major will brief you more thoroughly tomorrow. He’s in a meeting for the rest of today. It’s archives work, I think.” She grimaced sympathetically, knowing 3.7’s dislike for sedentary work. He didn’t respond, and she shrugged and went back to her work.

Bodie opened the envelope. It contained a short memo telling him to do some research into some of the peripheral characters involved in the big, long-term case Bodie had been assigned to. It meant nothing to him, but Cowley mentioned some of the names, and told him to “pull the files” and spend “at least two days in Archives” gathering information and preparing a report. That was clear enough to be useful to him.

By staying calm and searching for images of files, and reading files, he discovered that he knew where the Archives department was and how to get there. He asked for the files of the people listed in the note, and sat at a long table set against the wall, divided by several tall partitions. There was another man sitting a couple of partitions away with a pile of files. He had one open in front of him, and was reading, head propped on his hand. Bodie copied him. He went through his pile, turning the pages and looking at each word, slowly, in turn. When he’d finished the pile, he started again.

He was going through them for the third time when his name was called. It was the woman behind the desk.

“We’re closing now. You’ll have to tear yourself away.”

He got up, picked up his files, and made for the door. She stopped him. “Hang on. You know you can’t take those away without the proper Release Form. Have you got authorization?”

He shook his head.

“Well, hand them back. And sign them off this time.” She pushed a book at him, and pointed at a blank line. He signed. Satisfied, she closed the book, and took the files. When she came back from locking them away, Bodie was still there.

“What are you waiting for? Haven’t you got a home to go to?”

Bodie said, “I was told to read the files for at least two days.” He looked as if he meant to stay where he was.

She gaped at him. “God, you _are_ keen. Are you sickening for something? Well, you can’t read them now. Come back tomorrow morning at eight. You know the system, Bodie.”

* * * * *

He was waiting outside the door of the Archives department when it opened at eight o’clock on Tuesday morning. He took the same files out, and sat at the same place at the table, and started going through them in the same way.

Other people arrived, sat down, went away again. Partners argued at the other end of the table. The staff took their tea break, lunch break, coffee break. Bodie was aware of none of it.

He was unaware that the head archivist was watching him closely, and touring the room at regular intervals to see what he was doing with the files. He was unaware that she left the room after receiving a ‘phone call. He was unaware that he was Cowley’s main concern that day, and that Anson, Reeves, Macklin, Doctor Garston, and the archivist had all been giving reports on his recent behaviour, and that Doctor Ross had driven into London from the Training Centre.

In the afternoon there was a long discussion between Cowley, Macklin, Garston and Ross on Bodie’s state and its likely nature, cause and cure. The nature was quickly classified as “some kind of shock”, Garston having found no traces of drugs or disease. As to cause and cure - after two hours of argument and speculation, they decided that Bodie was the best person to answer those questions, and that Cowley should be the one to ask.

At four in the afternoon, the head archivist went up to Bodie and said, “Major Cowley wants to see you.”

Bodie did not look up.

She said more loudly, “Bodie, you’re to report to Major Cowley’s office immediately.”

He turned to look at her, then stood up slowly. Before leaving the room he carefully placed the files on the counter and signed his name in the book.

He didn’t have to search for an image: the day before, the woman had given him a message from “the Major” - that must be where he had to go.

The woman looked up from her desk, and gestured to a door. “You can go straight in, 3.7.” He did. It didn’t occur to him to knock.

When he’d heard Betty directing 3.7, Cowley had switched on the small tape recorder in his desk; Ross needed to hear this.

“Sit down, Bodie.”

Bodie sat down. The two men looked at one another. Cowley was starting to understand why the word “zombie” had come up so often in people’s reports.

“How are you feeling?”

Bodie frowned, swallowed, and eventually said, “I’m alright.”

After a pause, Cowley said, “Do you know that quite a few people are concerned about you? We’re worried that you’re ill, or in some kind of trouble.”

Bodie said nothing. Cowley continued, “Doctor Garston says you’re not ill, though you’ve lost a lot of weight. Joyce says you didn’t have lunch today, or yesterday. Are you eating?”

A simple question. “No.”

“Why not?” No answer. “ _Are_ you ill, man? Say so, if you are. We’ll make sure you don’t spend a minute longer in hospital than you have to.” He smiled, wanting to reassure and to win a response. There was none at all, and it chilled him more than he would later admit to Ross: a blank stare, almost without recognition, when he’d been hoping for 3.7’s familiar, insubordinate grin.

“ _Why_ aren’t you eating, then? When did you last eat? Not counting what Reeves gave you.”

Bodie opened his mouth, paused while he appeared to think, then said calmly, “Sunday,” as if it had nothing to do with him.

“The day before yesterday? But you -“

“No. The other one.”

A pause while Cowley made sense of that. “You haven’t eaten for over a week?” The implications were frightening. Bodie would leave such a gap in CI5’s ranks.

He picked up the phone and set Betty down to the canteen. Then he continued quietly, “Both Macklin and Doctor Garston said they thought you were in shock, somehow. I think so too. Are you in some kind of trouble, Bodie? Has something happened to you?”

Bodie could say nothing. Why wouldn’t people stop their questions? Hadn’t they taken enough from him?

Cowley was baffled. He had experience of men at the limits of human distress, he had ample experience of interrogation, but this silent Bodie was making him forget all his skills.

He had always liked Bodie, enjoyed his sick sense of humour and his impatience with formalities and all the other things that had made his previous commanding officers delighted to get rid of him. Bodie’s irreverence wasn’t a threat because it didn’t hide or replace Bodie’s respect for him - indeed, it made him value the respect more highly.

He’d always sensed, though, that the man was holding something back - he didn’t need Ross’ reports to tell him that - and he’d known that it might be a mistake to try to get any closer to him. That didn’t stop him trusting Bodie, just made him feel protective of him in a way he couldn’t explain or justify.

Was this what he and Ross had sensed? Something that made him starve himself and forget that he’d been given the day off? He still didn’t want to get any closer, but for the sake of CI5 he had to. He decided to try a less direct approach.

“What have you been doing today, Bodie?”

“I’ve been in Archives, looking at the files.”

“Whose files have you been looking at?”

Bodie reeled off the names.

“Why have you been looking at those files?”

“I was told to look at them for at least two days.” Bodie took Cowley’s memo from his pocket and held it out. “This told me to.”

Cowley unfolded the piece of paper. Was Bodie doing only what he was told? Had someone tried to brainwash him? Left him like this?

“Do you know why I told you to look at those files?”

“No.”

Cowley paused and looked at the memo again. “Tell me about Matthew Townsend.”

Bodie said nothing.

“Can’t you remember anything you read about him?”

Bodie looked slightly puzzled, but still said nothing; he hadn’t read the file - he’d looked at it.

“What’s Operation Omnibus?” That was the code name of the long-term project he’d assigned 3.7 to.

Silence.

“Has someone else been asking you these questions? Asking you what you’re working on?”

“No.”

“Has anyone hurt you? Done strange things to you, like stick needles into you, shine lights in your eyes?”

“Yes.”

Cowley’s eyes widened. “When was this?”

“Yesterday.”

Cowley gaped, then shut his mouth quickly. “Where? Where did they take you?”

Bodie didn’t understand the second question, so he ignored it. He turned around in his chair, and pointed in the direction of the corridor outside, and slightly upwards.

“There, in the white room.”

“You mean Doctor Garston’s surgery?”

Bodie looked slightly unsure, but nodded.

Cowley closed his eyes briefly. As one of Bodie’s grim jokes and protests about medical attention, this would have been one of his best. As proof to Cowley of the loss of a valuable agent, it was the worst.

Had Bodie been got at? Did he need to protect his other agents from kidnapping and brainwashing? Or had Bodie not been pulled apart, but fallen apart under those internal stresses? The question was too important to leave unanswered. He sat back in his chair to study the quiet, closed face.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. It was Betty with a tray of food which, at her boss’ gesture, she set in front of Bodie. She had brought vegetable soup, a ham salad sandwich, fruit salad, and a glass of orange juice.

When she had gone, Cowley said quietly, “Eat the soup, Bodie. Eat very, very slowly, or you’ll make yourself ill.”

Bodie obeyed, and Cowley watched in silence. After Bodie had cleared the bowl, he made no move to unwrap the sandwich. Cowley was disturbed anew by this passivity, though he would have ordered him to wait for a while anyway, before throwing something solid at his stomach.

“Are you feeling any better?”

Bodie looked up. “I don’t know.”

Cowley nodded. “Don’t eat anything more until I tell you.” A pause. “Bodie, I have to find out why you’re behaving like this.”

Fear: helpless, child-like fear.

Cowley forced himself to continue. “I have to consider the safety of CI5. You know that. When one of my best agent turns into ... a zombie, I have to find out why. For the sake of the other agents, and also for his own sake. Do you understand that?”

Bodie shook his head slightly but vigorously.

To Cowley it looked like a refusal to hear the question, rather than a simple “No”. “I’m going to send you to Doctor Ross. I want you to -“

“No!” It was the strongest sign of emotion that Bodie had shown since ordering Doyle out of his flat.

“Yes, Bodie. She’s in London now. She’ll take you back with her, and work with you for as long as necessary.”

“No. Please.”

“You have to have help, man. You must recognise that. It’s for your own good, as well as for CI5’s. You can’t work the way you are now. Do you want to get back onto active duties?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’m glad. I don’t want to lose you. So you’ll go with Doctor Ross?”

Bodie lowered his head. His eyes seemed to be closed. He spoke very quietly. “No. Please. Not her.”

“Then who? You must have help.”

There was a long silence. Cowley watched Bodie’s tendons working as his hand gripped the arm of the chair. Finally he looked up. “I’ll get help.”

“Where?” The round, dark eyes told Cowley he would get no answer. He thought for a minute, then said, “Very well. I’ll give you a fortnight to find your own help. If you show some signs of improvement at the end of that time, then you can carry on, and I’ll leave you alone. Otherwise you go with Doctor Ross. But whatever happens, you’re not returning to active duty until she clears you. You’ll have to talk to her sometime.”

Bodie swallowed, then nodded.

“Finish your meal. Take it slowly, still.”

* * * * *

As Bodie ate, Cowley wondered if he should do what Macklin had suggested and order a full surveillance. It would be the thing to do if he believed that Bodie had been brainwashed; it might lead them to the enemy. But his instinct told him that this was a purely personal crisis. If that was the case, and Bodie discovered the surveillance, he could be lost to them for good.

That was his reasoning as Controller of CI5. It was reinforced by his fondness for the man, and by a dread of seeing the return of that look of fear.

Not a full surveillance then, but they could not just ignore him for a fortnight. His flat should be watched, and he should be followed, but there would be no bugging, no searches.

When the meal was finished, Cowley said, “Come and see me a fortnight tomorrow, at nine in the morning. And eat. I’ll send you to Doctor Garston again, and if you’ve lost more weight I’ll be forced to conclude that there’s been no improvement at all.”

Bodie nodded and stood up. As he reached out to the door-handle, Cowley said, “Take care of yourself, 3.7. I want you back on the Squad.”

He listened till the footsteps faded away, called Betty in to take the tray, and then summoned two solo agents from the B Squad, Radley and Bennet, and assigned them to the surveillance of 3.7. After that he summoned Ross, and they listened to the tape, and argued till late.

* * * * *

Bodie went straight back to his flat and sat on the settee staring at nothing, as he had just after Ray had left. This time, however, he was trying to think, whereas earlier he’d been trying not to think.

He didn’t want to look for help, but he knew there was no way out - he either found something himself, or he was left to Ross, who hated him. He cringed at the thought, and acid poured into his stomach, which churned uncomfortably.

But where else could he go? He knew there was only one idea he could bear, Ray’s idea: the Incest Survivors’ Group.

The name terrified him, but there was comfort (of a sort) in the idea of telling his story to ordinary people, and to people who were involved, because it had happened to them too, maybe even been worse for them. He could _almost_ imagine doing that. It would be horrible, and he would have avoided it, if Cowley would let him, but he had done many horrible things, and he had survived - he would probably survive even the Survivors’ Group.

He could not imagine surviving Ross, or any like her, even if he’d been able to find a psychiatrist who didn’t hate him on sight - he just didn’t trust them. They were like Murphy and Garrett, with their degrees and their confidence and their middle-class superiority and theorising. They’d regard him as a more or less interesting specimen, and write reports on him full of long words and no understanding.

It had to be the Survivors’ Group. But how to find it? Ray had said he could get him contact numbers. Should he ‘phone Ray? A bolt of pain shot through him at the thought.

No, not Ray. That was over.

Where, then? The ‘phone book, maybe. He got up and carried the four volumes to the coffee table. He looked up “Incest” and then “Survivors” and found nothing.

He sat, breathing hard, fighting down panic, for over a minute. Where did people go for help? The police? No. Never. The Samaritans? He nearly dismissed that, imagining a roomful of amateur Rosses, then thought again. He wouldn’t talk to them, of course, but they must have contacts with other people, useful people. If he just asked for the number, that would be alright. They wouldn’t know who he was. They wouldn’t even know that he was asking for himself. He looked again in the ‘phone book, found the number, and then, holding the book open, moved to the ‘phone.

He was about to pick up the receiver when he thought, “This line is bugged.” It must be. Cowley had said that he had to find out what was wrong. He’d be a fool if he didn’t use every method in his power. And Cowley was not a fool.

Bodie got a note-pad and pen and a supply of change for the ‘phone, wrote the number down, and left the flat. He walked for several blocks before selecting a ‘phone box. It had blank walls on two sides so he should be able to hide his mouth, though he didn’t know of any lip-readers in the squad, so he was probably safe anyway. He didn’t bother looking for the tail he knew Cowley must have set on him.

He dialled the number, which was answered after five rings. He said tightly, “I need the number of an Incest Survivors’ Group. Or something like that.”

The voice on the other end said that she had the number of a group in London, and then gave a commentary as she searched through her files. She seemed to be trying to get Bodie to speak to her, and maybe decide he didn’t need to bother with the Group. Bodie thought cynically that he’d no idea that there was such competition between these ‘phone-in places - as an incest case he was obviously in great demand, a smart and rare feather in someone’s cap.

Finally she said, “Ah, I’ve found it!” and then read out the number while Bodie wrote it down. She told him the line was open from seven to eleven every evening. He thanked her and hung up.

He looked at his watch. It was just gone seven thirty. He sorted his stack of 10p’s on top of the coin box, swallowed, and dialled. Again, it was a woman who answered.

“I need help,” he said, his heart pounding.

“What sort of help would you like?” she asked quietly.

“I don’t know.” He didn’t. He knew what sort of help he didn’t want and wouldn’t accept, but he had no idea how _anyone_ could make sense of his life for him, make him into something worth helping.

“Well, you can talk to me as long as you like. I can call you back, so you don’t have to worry about the ‘phone bill. There’s a man here as well, if you’d rather talk to a man. Or you could come to our Group meetings. They’re on Sunday evenings.”

Bodie thought for a while. He’d never had kindness from a woman, had long ago stopped expecting it. But from a man ... There had been horrors, but there had also been Ray, and Cowley, and his father ... sometimes. Yes, he could imagine himself speaking to a man.

But speaking for hours and hours on this ‘phone? By now the tail must have set the computers working finding the number of the call box. The line could be secure only for twenty or thirty minutes at the most, and he needed more than that.

Finally, he said, “I’d rather talk to a man, but ... not over the ‘phone. Could I meet someone?”

“Yes, we can arrange that. If you call again tomorrow -“

“Tonight. Can I meet someone tonight?”

“I’m afraid that might be difficult. You see, we’re just a small group, and there are only two of us on duty at the moment, and we don’t like to leave one person alone on the ‘phones. If you can wait till tomorrow that will give us time to arrange for someone to meet you.”

Bodie felt cold and sick at the idea of 24 hours anticipation: 24 hours in which to rehearse over and over what he would say, what he would feel. No. Please.

“Please. Can’t I come round to you?”

“I’m sorry. We’re a really small, poor group. All we’ve got is just the room with the ‘phones, and we don’t allow other people in the room. It’s a matter of privacy for callers, you see.”

“I see,” he said weakly.

But she continued quickly, “I’m sorry, I’m sounding more discouraging about tonight than I should. I should have said that we _may_ be able to arrange for someone to meet you tonight, if we can contact someone. But I can’t guarantee it. But I can guarantee it for tomorrow. Would you like to speak to Dan while I start ‘phoning round?”

Bodie said yes. It seemed simplest, though he had no idea what he would say.

“Then is it alright if I give Dan a quick idea about what we’ve talked about, so you don’t have to repeat yourself?”

He gave his permission; he was sure the man must have heard every word, at least of her side of the conversation, but he appreciated the courtesy. She thanked him, there was a short silence, and then a male voice greeted him.

The man introduced himself. “I’ll meet you. Tonight, I hope, if we can find someone to cover for me, but definitely tomorrow. Where would you like to meet?”

Bodie had been thinking about that. His flat was out - bugged - and pubs and cafes, the usual meeting places, were too crowded, not private enough. He thought about spy films. A boat on the Serpentine was a popular ploy, wasn’t it? No, he couldn’t suggest that. But it did give him another idea.

“Could we meet in Hyde Park? Under Marble Arch?”

“Fine. How will I know you?”

Bodie described himself, said he’d be wearing a pale-blue leather jacket, which was the most distinctive garment he could think of - Ray had hated it, and he hadn’t worn it in nearly a year - and he gave his name. His heartbeat accelerated as he said, “... and my name’s William Bodie,” and took a long time to slow again.

It must be half his life-time since he’d last said those words aloud. He’d told Ray his name, but then he’d used all of it, and that made it a joke, distanced him from it. Those two words together were not a joke to him; they were everything he was.

Dan was describing himself in turn, when he interrupted himself with, “Oh, great! We’ve just found someone. He’s on his way over here now. I’ll set off as soon as he arrives, which means I should be at Marble Arch at ... what’s the time now? ... 8.30 to 8.45, depending on the tube. Would you like to stay talking until I can leave? I can ‘phone you back.”

“No. I’ll wait till we meet. Goodbye. Thank you.” He put the ‘phone down, and left the ‘phone box.

He went straight back to his flat and changed into the leather jacket. It was just past eight. He sat on the settee again. The ‘phone books were still open on the coffee table, and he sat looking at them, thinking about what he had just done, and what he was about to do.

He was terrified, more frightened than he’d been when he’d taken his first parachute jump. He hadn’t thought of that in years. It was the same principle: stepping away from the safe and familiar, into the void. And sometimes chutes didn’t open, did they? Yes, he was terrified.

But if your plane was on fire, you had to jump. He had to prepare himself. But in his heart, he knew that he had already jumped. He had already committed himself. But he felt as if he’d been pushed, and he couldn’t feel the weight of a pack secure against his back, and the ground looked all too close, and very, very hard.

He didn’t have to make the meeting. He didn’t have to stay with CI5. He could shake off the tail, get out of the country. But if he did that he knew that he’d be completely lost. He’d be back in the jungle, wading in filth and blood. Yes, he could do it. Yes, it was a fitting place for him. But he had a picture of himself in combat gear, mud camouflaging his face, rifle in hand, crawling on his stomach, and he imagined Ray seeing him like that, and he closed his eyes and swallowed hard.

He’d just realised that he hadn’t reached the bottom yet. It was possible to feel more worthless than he did already. It was possible for him to turn himself into someone Ray would despise.

* * * * *

At quarter past he left the flat, and made his way to Marble Arch through the maze of tunnels under the busy roundabout. He got to the monument just before eight thirty and stood by one of the legs, looking north, away from Hyde Park and towards the tube station.

His heart was pounding, and the pain of tension in his stomach was nearly as bad as the previous hunger pangs. His fear increased with every head that rose into view up the steps that led from the tunnels. They all looked so human, so casual. Soon, one of them would be this Dan, and he too would look human and casual, in his jeans and black T-shirt. He would look like anyone else, like any other stranger.

But Bodie’s secret was already in his head, and he would not die for that. And soon he would know everything about the oldest and worst secret, more even than Ray could know, and still he would not die. Bodie felt helpless and bewildered. He didn’t understand anything anymore.

He did not check his watch as he might if he’d been waiting for Ray in their favourite pub. This was happening outside time.

Dusk was falling, and colours were becoming dim, and the man was halfway up the steps before Bodie noticed him. He walked towards Bodie without hesitation, and their eyes met. Bodie stood frozen for a second, feeling the sight of the short, red-headed man sink into his brain like a hot coal into a snow drift. Then he walked towards him.

The man smiled, but Bodie could not smile back.

“William Bodie?”

Bodie nodded.

“I’m Dan. Dan Buchanan.”

When Bodie said nothing, but stood wide-eyed and swallowed jerkily, Dan gestured towards the expanse of trees. “Shall we go into the park?”

The park was not deserted. There were joggers and dog-owners and idlers, but the warm air was still, like a pond, and the light was fading fast; the evening had turned the groups of people into little islands, aware of each other, but separate and private. The two men walked slowly westwards, and Bodie started to talk.


	14. Heat-Trace - Chapter 12

## Chapter 12

When Doyle arrived home after leaving Bodie that Sunday evening, his flat was very still and warm. He opened a window and let in the air and the sounds of the summer night. There was a group of skate-boarders at the end of the street, far enough away that the shouts and clattering were abstract, almost pleasant, like the call of an animal across the fields.

He felt sick. He stood in the sitting room for some seconds trying to decide just how bad he felt, and then moved carefully into the bathroom and knelt over the toilet bowl. His stomach clenched at the combination of bleach and urine, and he started panting. But nothing further happened. After a minute he got up. He still felt awful, full of a heavy, hot liquid, but he couldn’t get rid of it that easily.

He drank some cold water and then splashed some on his face. It helped at first, but as he dried his face he realised that he’d managed to soak the front of his T-shirt, and the cuffs and lining of the jacket. Where the wet material touched his skin it seemed slowly to be leeching the warmth from the depths of his body.

He went into the bedroom and changed into a thick cotton jumper. The T-shirt went into his laundry basket. He picked up the jacket and searched in the wardrobe for the hanger. As he put it away he thought, _I should be feeling something. Not just cold. Or sick. What’s wrong with me? Don’t I care about what I’ve just done?_

He wandered into the sitting room. The skateboarders were still enjoying themselves. He stood at the window and watched them until it got dark and their numbers thinned, and finally the last two went home.

Night had stolen the colours from the room; his dark-green armchair looked almost black. He sat in it and reached over to turn on the table lamp; this created a small circle of light, enough for reading, but seemed only to deepen the darkness outside the circle. He was feeling cold again. He wasn’t at all tired, didn’t want to go to bed. He might as well stay here - get warm, get a drink, read until he felt sleepy.

In the kitchen he turned the kettle on and then fetched his old tweed jacket from the bedroom. He fancied a coffee, but he didn’t want to fight sleep, and he really didn’t want the shakes, not now, so he searched for his tea-pot and washed the dust off it. When had he last used it? Must have been months ago. Then, very clearly, he remembered an evening in March, and sitting watching the news, and Bodie shouldering the door open and struggling through with the pot and a couple of mugs and a carton of milk. Bodie had always been the one who suggested tea. Usually the one who made it too.

Back in the sitting room he set everything on the table by his chair, and turned on the main light while he looked for something to read. In the end he chose a detective novel, a Margery Allingham; he’d read it before, but couldn’t remember a thing about the plot, and with any luck he’d get at least halfway through before it all came back to him.

He read, sipping his tea and eating biscuits, soothed by the comfortable, playful world of Campion. At first he wasn’t aware that he’d stopped reading; he carried on turning the pages for a while, but his mind was drifting. After gazing at the same paragraph for two minutes, he slowly lifted his head and stared across the room.

He was thinking about that March evening. It must have been March. It had certainly been many, many months since they’d had that sort of quiet evening in this flat, without an argument or a hint of an argument. Bodie had poured the tea, and then gone to get his Jaffa cakes. They had sat and watched the rest of the news, Doyle in his armchair by the window, Bodie on the settee, commenting on some of the items.

He poured himself some more tea and rested the mug on the arm of the chair, warming his hands on it. Without looking at the settee he could remember exactly what Bodie had looked like sitting there that evening, remember his words and tone of voice. After the news there had been a film - a forgettable comedy thriller - and during the first adverts he had gone into the kitchen to get some beers, and when he came back he sat next to the CI5 man on the settee, and they relaxed against one another, and at dull points in the film Bodie had played with his hair. It was all very clear still. He smiled as he had then, and tilted his head to push against the hand that was no longer there.

He realised what he was doing, and stopped and frowned. _This can’t be healthy. Am I thinking of begging him to take me back? Am I trying to punish myself?_ No, that didn’t seem to be it. He knew it was over, but somehow it wasn’t important and it didn’t hurt - he couldn’t keep his mind on it. Strange. Usually he had no problems concentrating on disasters. His mind returned to those hours, months gone, and fed him simple pleasure in the memory of Bodie blowing into his curls; sometimes that was ticklish and led to a mock-fight, but that night it had been soothing and soon he’d lifted his mouth for a kiss.

Was there harm in these gentle thoughts? After all, they would fade soon enough. What would he remember of Bodie in ten years time?

Immediately after that thought formed, he felt a sudden sharp pain in the bridge of his nose, and saw the pattern on the mug distort. With surprise he realised that he was crying. Crying, and he didn’t know why. He dried his eyes on the hem of his jumper, but the tears continued. He sat and waited for them to stop.

He wondered how all this would look to an observer. Like a natural reaction to the violent end of a tangled affair? PC Doyle drives home shaking, is nearly sick, sits, dazed, staring at nothing, and then bursts into tears. Quite natural.

But it was only his body that was doing the right things, that had any sense of occasion. It was as if only his body had been invited to dinner at Bodie’s that evening. His thoughts and his emotions had been somewhere else, and didn’t even want to catch up on the news. He didn’t like this. He wanted his body to stop the melodrama. He wanted his mind to stop the nostalgic escapism. He knew he was in shock, but he didn’t have to like it.

He wiped his eyes again roughly, topped up his mug, and tried to carry on reading. But the words kept blurring and drops fell from his nose onto the pages.

One landed on his hand as he turned the page. “Oh, for _God’s_ sake.” He chucked the book on the floor and headed for the bathroom. He washed his face, and then stared at his reflection. He looked both angry and forlorn: the anger, he was prepared to acknowledge as his own. He watched a line of brightness form along the bottom of his eyes. He blinked, and his cheeks were wet once more. Well, he wasn’t going to wash again. He’d be here all night at this rate. He ripped open a pack of toilet paper, and took a roll back into the sitting room.

He trod on the book as he was sitting down, kicked it across the room and was then immediately ashamed of his childishness. He made a great effort to calm down, then drained his mug quickly and refilled it, emptying the tea-pot. The tea was stewed and barely warm. At the first mouthful he grimaced, and put his mug down on the table. He settled in his chair, head tilted back. The tears stopped after a while, leaving a tightness around his eyes, and exhaustion. He went to bed.

* * * * *

He slept soundly, undisturbed by the delivery of milk or mail, and was woken gently by a shaft of sunlight that finally reached his face after an hour’s slow progress across the wall. Barely awake, he smiled at the pastel glow in the room, glad he didn’t have go to work until three in the afternoon. _I fancy going swimming. A hard swim. Tire myself out and then lie in the sun._ He thought through the possibilities. _Be too late for a video in the evening. Anti-social. But we’ll manage a few beers._ His face went blank for a second. _Oh._

There was a cold tension somewhere under his ribs. It was more annoying than depressing - like being with someone who was brooding over a problem when you just wanted to enjoy yourself. No point in moping, though. He could still go swimming. And the evening would take care of itself.

He flung back the duvet, opened the curtains, and stretched luxuriously in the warmth and brightness. Then he padded into the sitting room and flicked through his music collection looking for some light, sunny-morning music. Handel. Couldn’t go wrong with Handel. He turned it up so that he could just hear it in the shower.

After dumping last night’s tea things in the sink, he made coffee and toast, and settled in his armchair. The rough-textured material was prickly against his bare skin, and it took some squirming before he found a worn patch that his bum was happy with. He could hear his neighbours going to work: car doors slamming, and heels clacking towards the tube station.

The tension had eased. He felt more comfortable and in control than he had the previous night, and he was aware of it, and not sure what it meant, or what it said about him. Maybe he’d left Bodie so many times in his imagination, that the fact that this was real was just a minor detail - he’d already dealt with it. The adrenaline had been going last night, which was why he’d been shaky then, but now, after a good sleep, he was recovering quickly.

He felt pleased with himself, sitting naked and content at the beginning of a beautiful day. He was uninhibited, clear-thinking, effective - the picture of health. There was a twinge of concern for Bodie, who was probably having some sort of emotional hangover, blearily hoping that he’d imagined it and hadn’t really thrown his best glasses in the bin. It might take him longer to recover, but he’d be alright - he’d notice soon that he was happier without Ray Doyle snapping at him all the time.

He finished his coffee, and for a while concentrated on the music. When it finished he’d think about making his way to Highgate Ponds. He leant his head back, totally relaxed.

* * * * *

The clatter of a skateboard hitting a ramp made him jerk with annoyance as the mood was broken. At the second crash he opened his eyes, and uncurled his legs from the seat of the chair, resigned to his return to the twentieth century. As he stood up, the noise seemed to treble - there must be ten at least, and they were yelling at each other constantly. The racket seemed to be everywhere. Where were the bastards? On his roof?

He was moving away from the window, eager now to get dressed and get out, when he was frozen in anticipation by the sound of a long run-up over uneven ground, each bump broadcast like machine-gun fire by the hard wheels and their bearings. He tensed, expecting at any moment to hear the climactic, protesting shout of the plywood ramp, but he didn’t prepare himself enough. He was back at the window before the board hit solid ground again. He opened the window further and leant out, trying to locate them, not caring what the businessman below would see if he looked up.

He couldn’t see them, but the sound seemed to be getting worse. He shut the window completely, and it made no difference. This was unbearable.

It was like listening to a gangland beating: the taunts, the threats, the tender, sadistic description of what was going to happen, and, worst of all, the attacks without warning, so it was impossible to brace yourself, and you knew it could happen any time. This wasn’t a game, these weren’t children - they were vicious stupidity made flesh, they were an insult to ...

Coherent thought was burnt away in a flash-fire of rage, leaving only flickering images: a rifle ... a high place ... a lesson even these morons would never forget.

A shout went up, and he whirled round, stood panting for a second in the corridor, looking towards the front door, and then dashed into the bedroom. He dressed in moments, not bothering with underwear, and then slammed out of the flat. He had no plan. He needed none. He felt like a flaming sword wielded by the Angel of Reason.

They weren’t in the car park. He saw that as soon as he stepped out of the entrance door. He could have sworn ... The little ... He turned slowly round, breath harsh and jerking, eyes scanning like a security camera. The noise still seemed to be coming from everywhere.

On the second circuit he decided on the direction - the other side of the block from his flat - but still couldn’t see anything from the car park. He ran from the car park to the road, stopped to listen, and then ran on, eyes still scanning.

He came to the end of his street without finding them, and slowed to a walk as he turned left. He was five paces down the road when his methodical survey took in the warped fencing and peeling bill-boards which were supposed to seal the dis-used synagogue from the road. From where Doyle stood, twenty yards away on the other side of the road, he could see nothing of the property except the ruins of the roof. However, he knew that if he got closer he’d get a good view through the gaps in the fencing.

This place had been the main unofficial playground all summer. He’d walked past it with Bodie once, and pointed out the improvised skateboard course as a fine piece of local craftsmanship. Why had it never bothered him before? He stood completely still, concentrating so hard on his memories of the summer that he skipped a few seconds of real time. He blinked, and returned, question still unanswered, and discovered that the sounds from the derelict site had become just another element of street life.

He turned and walked slowly home.

* * * * *

As he walked up the stairs he started patting his pockets for keys, but the door was wide open. The sight added to the chill from his cooling sweat. He shut himself in. The hallway was very dark after the sunshine outside. He was starting to feel sick again, so he moved very carefully into the sitting room, trying not to disturb himself. He hid the debris of his breakfast under the table, curled up in his chair, and gnawed at his knuckles.

For a while his main feeling was relief that they hadn’t been in the car park. If they’d been at the bottom of the stairs when he’d launched himself from the flat, he would have killed them. No doubt about that. Smashed their heads open. That’s what he’d wanted. He’d have got two, probably, before the others ran or managed to hold him down. If they’d been in the car park.

He could still hear them: it was a high-pitched mixture of sounds which carried over the traffic, not loud, but distinct if you listened for it. He’d tuned it out every other day of the summer. So did his neighbours - he’d heard of no complaints. What was different today? There was no wind - maybe sound was travelling further than usual. Maybe they were trying out something new. Maybe in some conditions the old building acted as an amplifier, set up some kind of echo.

He frowned, pained, and ashamed of his own evasions. There was nothing different today. This had nothing to do with them or with the weather. It was him. He’d thought they were savages, but it was him. There was something wrong with him.

He was scared to think about it, though. What if he sparked it off again? He seemed OK now, but ... Like, before he’d been feeling great - serene, even - and then ... a few seconds while the fuse hissed and spat, and then ...

He swallowed.

_Should I turn myself in?_ He considered it seriously, creating a pattern of teethmarks on his hand that took several minutes to fade. But he just couldn’t imagine how he’d do it, or what would become of him. It was a void. Like after a murder trial - a life heading into the space that was white on the map. Except he hadn’t done anything. That was important, surely, that he hadn’t done anything except run out into the street. When he’d realised he was wrong, he’d turned back. Did that mean he could be trusted with himself?

He wanted to believe he could. If he _didn’t_ believe that, what did that make him? How could he carry on as a copper - as _anything_ \- knowing that he was capable of such obliterating fury, and not knowing what might cause it? It had to be understood. And before he went on duty again. That gave him less than six hours. Not long at all. Not long enough.

He’d have to call in sick. There was no question about it. All of a sudden he acquired a cold, come on very quickly on Sunday morning. Well, the sore throat had gone in a day, so he was hoping it wouldn’t last long. Yeah, he’d keep warm, be in tomorrow, probably.

_God. Hope that’s enough. No way to judge._

He swallowed, wishing it would all go away, half-wanting someone else to deal with it all for him. But he had to try. And if it was too difficult, then he had to decide for himself that he’d failed, and then decide what to do. He was Ray Doyle. It took more than this to make him think he couldn’t cope. Yeah. His mother had died and he’d coped with that on his own. He nodded to himself, and his jaw shifted forward involuntarily and unnoticed.

He was feeling more self-confident, but cautious. He needed to plan this. He was dealing with someone potentially dangerous, and he couldn’t barge in, shouting, like an idiot probationer more concerned about the story he’d be telling his mates than about the public safety. He was going to have to think very hard about why he’d reacted the way he had, try to relive it, maybe risk sparking it off again. And there was no guessing who might be in his way if that happened and he charged out looking for a fight.

He had to think of this professionally, as if it was a shoot-out or a raid. Secure the area, that was the drill. Make sure any trouble is contained. But what did that mean here? He couldn’t arrange for a team of marksmen to cover the doors and windows in case he broke out.

He could lock himself in. Well, that was obvious, but he’d need to get out the next day so he couldn’t just throw away the keys. And if the keys were in the flat then he could find them and let himself out.

Yeah, it was a stupid idea.

But he couldn’t let it go. He toured the flat in his mind, trying to think of some way of hiding the keys that would slow him down while he came to his senses. Toilet cistern? Behind the fridge? In his toolbox? Inside a packet of flour? Inside a carton of orange juice?

But none of this would slow him down for more than a minute. He’d just rip open the packet, or pour out the juice, and there his keys would be. He needed some sort of time lock. If he had plaster of paris instead of flour, it would set, and it might take hours to chip his keys out. Fine idea - only flaw was the complete lack of plaster of paris. If you’re wasting time on ideas like that you might just as well dream about the orange juice turning into glass and making a nice paperweight.

And then he remembered years back to the Arnolds’, and one summer when, in unison, they’d all gone crazy for orange juice. They drank gallons of the stuff, and for a few weeks Mrs. Arnold had tried to save money by buying frozen concentrate. It came as a cylinder wrapped in cardboard, and you pushed it out of the cardboard tube, and there, for as long as you could bear to hold it, was a slab of orange juice.

It didn’t taste as good as the real stuff in cartons (insisted everyone except Mrs. Arnold), but it was more fun, and Doyle always tried to get the job of unwrapping it. The others said it was just like an ice lolly, but he knew it wasn’t. A lolly was either on the stick, frozen, or inside you, melted. No one melted a lolly on purpose and then kept it to drink.

That was it. He could freeze the keys inside something. That would work. He’d have to be clever though - make sure they weren’t near the surface of the ice so he couldn’t chip them out quickly. Make a little platform to get them in the middle of the slab? Or protect the surface so he couldn’t chip away at it, but had to wait until the whole thing melted? Put them in something he couldn’t break or rip open, something shaped so he couldn’t just slide the slab out. He opened the fridge to start his search, and beside the juice carton was his last can of beer. Perfect.

He poured the beer out into a glass and filled the can with water instead, not sure how beer would freeze. He had to take the keys off the key-ring to fit them one-by-one into the can. When it was done he waited in the sitting room with the glass of beer, and concentrated on Handel again, not willing to start work on himself until the freeze was complete.

He found it easy to keep his mind off the problem while he was waiting. He was sure now that it couldn’t be anything too serious; his mind was obviously in good shape judging by the way he’d just figured out how to lock himself in. He was pleased with himself again, as he had been first thing that morning.

Before the Handel tape had finished, he picked up the book he’d been reading the night before, and this time it held his attention. At the end of Chapter Five, he looked up, discovered over an hour had passed, and went to check on the freezer. It had done its work.

He sat in his chair, and wondered where to start. With the skateboarders? It might give him a clue. He concentrated fully on the sound for the first time since turning back in the street. What had he heard in it?

He didn’t expect the exercise to work, thought his mind was too smart to fall for the same trick twice. So there was a ripple of surprise that stayed intact and recognisable for a few moments while the floods rose. After the ripple broke up, the chaos was just the same as before.

He was on his feet, trembling. He had to make it stop. His brain would explode if he didn’t make it stop. But he knew there was nothing he could do. He blocked his ears, exerting great pressure to keep them closed. It didn’t bring total silence - he could hear the big, deep sounds of distant traffic and aeroplanes - but nothing else got through over the grinding of his finger-joints, and the low droning of his skull.

He stood like that for several minutes, the grinding from his hands getting worse as fatigue advanced. The rage receded.

He went across the room to the hi-fi and managed to pick up his headphones while keeping his index fingers firmly in his ears. Then he manoeuvred the headphones into position on top of his hands, so that when he unplugged his ears they were unprotected for only a fraction of a second. The headphones weren’t perfect, but they kept the worst away while he flipped the tape over and turned it on.

After a minute he was calm again, and he turned the music off. He wasn’t intending to spend the entire day deafening himself with Handel - he wouldn’t make any progress like that - but it might be wise to stay hooked up for a while. The skateboarders had merged into the background again, and he didn’t try to focus on them. He’d made his point.

_My temper’s suddenly turned really dangerous. I’ve always been a bit ratty but that was OK - just kept the fools on their toes. All of a sudden ... I’m not safe to be let out on the streets. What happened? Did I have a dream about zombie skateboarders last night that I don’t remember?_ Don’t be stupid. _But why does the sound of a run-up feel like a beating?_

_Or am I looking at this the wrong way? It’s nothing at all to do with the kids, not in any way. Somehow I’m expecting a beating, I’m ready for violence, and I’m just looking for any excuse to start me off._

He didn’t want it to be true - it wasn’t what Ray Doyle was about - but he remembered how loud the skateboarding had seemed. It had been impossibly loud. Really. _Impossibly_. It couldn’t have been amplified like that by an old building, or by the bearings or the still air. It had been amplified by him, because he was tuned to chaos and pain. Chaos and pain. Yes. That was what had made the noise unbearable, why he’d had to stop it. He simply couldn’t face any more.

Any more of what, though? He’d been sitting quietly, enjoying the sunny morning when it had started, not being bounced around the walls. What was supposed to have tuned him in?

Then suddenly his brain gave him the answer: it put him back in Bodie’s flat, where Bodie was swearing at him, and the world was ending.

How had he managed to forget about it for so long? The worst mistake of his life just hours behind him, and he’d been about to go sunbathing.

“You bastard,” he muttered to himself, then nodded, eyes tight-closed in a sustained flinch. “You bastard,” quieter this time. He carried on nodding, and his clenched muscles slowly relaxed as he accepted the judgement, and he was left slumped against the wall, drained and ashamed. He took the headphones off, and let them fall.

He thought about Bodie, about what he now knew about Bodie, and about what he’d done with that knowledge. Almost silently, he started to cry again. He drew his knees up, clasped his hands around them, and hid his face.

His tears became gradually more noisy. He was making a list of his crimes against Bodie, and it got steadily longer. Soon he was gasping and exhausted, but he knew he’d only started. He stumbled to his feet and into the bedroom, still sobbing, and collapsed face-downwards onto the bed.

He barely moved for several hours. There were times when he was not crying, but he was not aware of them. He could not have described his thoughts - they hurtled around like fleas in a small box - impossible to track one for more than a fraction of a second, or to distinguish individuals from the mass.

As for his feelings ... He wanted the world to be remade so that Sunday hadn’t happened - so that all the days which led to Sunday hadn’t happened. He wanted a rest from the hurting; he wanted someone strong to hold him and make everything alright. He wanted the impossible, and he knew it, so he gripped the pillow and wept, because there was nothing else to do.

In the early afternoon the pain in his bladder became a demand to which he responded reluctantly. He did not turn the light on in the bathroom, and, with his head lowered, could not see his shadowed reflection in the mirror. When he returned to the bedroom he stood looking down at the bed. The tear-stains made a irregular blotch on the centre of the light-brown pillow; trails of mucus glistened in the bright light.

He reached out to drop it on the floor, then stopped, and sat on the edge of the bed. He’d been about to make himself comfortable so he could carry on until the next time he had to piss. This could go on forever. _It ought to,_ part of himself said. _It ought to. I should never be allowed to get over this._

He sniffed, and tears ran down and into his nose, making him sniff harder. He wiped his face on the sleeve of his T-shirt. A fresh pillow was very appealing, but he wouldn’t be able to fall onto it with that first blind urgency: he was conscious of himself again, and of the passage of time around him. He was thinking again, little though he wanted to.

He had to be ready to work in a day’s time. There was no question about that. He’d known that when he set himself the deadline for working out why he’d nearly killed the skateboarders. Remembering, he felt a bitter envy for that cosy time when he’d simply thought he was going mad, and then forcefully told himself that the deadline still applied - he had to be fit for the streets by Tuesday afternoon. Had to “pull himself together”.

He didn’t want to. He slumped diagonally across the bed, looking up at the ceiling. When he’d first set the deadline, it had been a challenge, a mystery - he’d had a scare, but he was confident too, and he had nothing to lose. Now there was no mystery and there was no energy in him. And if he succeeded he wouldn’t like himself - Ray Doyle, the man who can mourn to a strict budget. Bodie deserved so much more than that.

But he needed his job. His face twisted and he sighed raggedly. But what was he going to do? What could possibly help in less than a day?

All right, if he was doing all of this for his job, look at it as a case. What would he say to a civilian after a disaster? He tried to think, but his own disaster took up the foreground, and examples wouldn’t come into focus. He felt himself panicking, and let go.

_Well, what about the last time I felt like this? What did I do then?_ He didn’t stop to quibble about degrees of paralysing misery. _I went to Bodie, and he held me. And I told him about the dog._ It was not the happiest of examples. He fought the urge to roll over and hide his face. Tears trickled into his ears, tepid and ridiculous.

He put an arm over his eyes; the hairs absorbed some of the moisture. He could smell his own skin, feel the curve of his biceps against his cheek. It was no comfort. The smell and feel of Bodie had been comfort. He wanted Bodie. He mouthed the name, then moaned quietly as everything between groin and diaphragm clenched suddenly, painfully, with longing.

He dragged his hand back through his hair, and opened his eyes wide. _Should I call him? Would he have me if I asked to come back?_

He couldn’t be sure.

_Maybe he hates me now, even more than he used to love me. Maybe I’ll never exist for him again._

It was possible. It was also possible that Bodie would let himself into the flat in the next minute, desperate and passionate, insisting Doyle had no right to leave him.

_Ahh._ For a while there he’d forgotten the full reality of Bodie, forgotten that Bodie wasn’t his old teddy-bear which could be thrown back in the toy cupboard when he no longer needed a hug. There was a price for ... using Bodie like that - a price both of them had to pay. _I_ was _using him that last time,_ he thought, seeing it clearly for the first time. _And he knew it. He knew it was the only reason I’d come back to him, and it tore him apart. I can’t do that to him again, even if he’d let me._ He nodded, mind made up. It hurt. With that brief possibility of comfort dismissed, he felt very alone.

He lay quietly, thinking of the ways his life would change now that he would never see Bodie again.

Strange that being deprived of the good things seemed more important than being spared the bad. Especially since before, when he’d been deciding that they had to finish, it had seemed that the good things - the love, the friendship, the sex - had been trivial compared with the bad - the helplessness, the secrecy, the baffled fury. What did that mean? Further proof that he just didn’t know who he was where Bodie was concerned?

He sighed deeply, breath still uneven though he had stopped crying. He felt very confused and unstable, not at all sure he’d be fit for work the next day. Everything was so close to the surface: tears, thoughts, doubts.

He could see himself, stuck in a slow-moving canteen queue, starting to tell anyone in earshot how many times he’d nearly finished with Bodie in the past year, and asking whether he’d done the right thing. _“Or do you think I should have put a stop to it as soon as we got back to town? Yeah, but ... I wasn’t to know how it would turn out, was I? I though I could have it all. Maybe I was selfish, but ...”_

Or he could see himself bursting into tears the next time Garrett asked about Bodie. Which she would probably do as soon as they were alone, considering what had happened on Saturday night. “Oh God.” It was all too likely. His tear-ducts flexed in anticipation. _Would that be so bad, though? Garrett wouldn’t mind. I could tell her everything, and she wouldn’t gossip, and she wouldn’t think any less of me. I could phone her now, ask her to come round after work. Easier here than in a squad car._

He thought about it, frowning. It was the first time he’d seriously considered telling anyone. It probably _would_ help. That was the main dogma of social-work-policing, wasn’t it? “It helps to talk things through.”

He’d thought of it before, but abstractly: an outside opinion would have been “useful” when he’d been bewildered by his swings of mood and opinion regarding Bodie. He’d never tried to attach a name to that opinion. There had been no real need: no deadline, no tears or words fighting to get out and not caring where.

He _could_ tell Garrett. He could imagine her sitting in the other armchair with a glass of wine, could hear his clumsy start: “You know what you asked me when you were here the other day? Well ...”

It could be done. He would survive it. It would help. But nothing in him wanted to do it. He noted that. What did it mean? From the recent state of his instincts, it probably meant that it was exactly the right thing to do. He wondered if she would be in if he called. Probably not. Would a message get through? If he made it sound like business.

He wriggled his toes restlessly inside his sneakers. If he didn’t come up with another plan within a few minutes, this one was going to move of its own accord - he could see the signs. He still didn’t like it. Really didn’t like it.

_Well, come up with some decent reasons then. Is it Garrett? Would it be easier with a bloke? Or with someone I don’t have to work with every day?_

In his imagination he flicked through his address book. There was no one suitable. Even the ones who might just hear him out ... Well, you had to be close to someone to dump all this on them, and there simply wasn’t anyone. He wasn’t really that close to Garrett, wouldn’t consider her except she’d already guessed.

Then he thought, _Do I want to tell Garrett to pay her back for being so bloody nosy?_ Maybe, but she was still the best person he knew.

_What about someone I don’t know? A complete stranger? Phone the Sams, or Gay Switchboard, or something. It could be easier, but - God - there’s so much background. At least Garrett knows who Bodie is._ And then he knew why he didn’t want to talk: because Bodie wouldn’t like it. He’d said that to Murphy months ago, hadn’t he? Was it any of Bodie’s business anymore, though? If they were never going to meet again?

But that wasn’t the root of it - Bodie knowing and not liking. The real reason was Bodie’s ... privacy, Bodie’s right to himself.

He breathed deeply, painfully, dragged the back of his hand over his face, and caught the index finger in his teeth. He gnawed at the knuckles, eyes tight-closed against the prickling of tears.

Was it sheer, stupid vanity that he believed that he was the only person in the world who valued Bodie, and wanted him to be treated with care? He hadn’t done very well, but ...

Always, whatever he was doing, a part of him was kneeling by a fire in the desert, cradling a filthy, unconscious man. The velvet sky had witnessed the moment when he’d dedicated all the passion that was in him to Bodie’s service - for justice, mostly - for reparations.

Never for a second had he wished to recall the vow; Bodie deserved it more than he could have known then. But he’d failed in that service, completely: it needed more than passion; it needed something that Ray Doyle didn’t have and couldn’t even name. To talk about him, though, to someone for whom he was just a name, a case, a curiosity - that would be more than failure, that would be betrayal.

So. No Garrett. No ‘phone calls.

He opened his eyes, blinked away the line of moisture, and let his punished hand fall back onto the bed. He felt better. Exhausted, but - for the moment - content. He was sure now that he was making the right decisions: not to go back to Bodie; not to talk.

He lay listening to his breathing and pulse slowing down, surveying his state of mind, wondering about the deadline. The deadline wasn’t a threat any more. He wasn’t worried about his own control; now that he knew that he simply couldn’t talk or provoke any questions, the temptation was gone. Strange. Maybe there was something to be said for bottling it up.

Eventually he found himself thinking nothing at all - just following the patterns on the wallpaper: see, that little design was used over and over; reversed there, and rotated there, and the petals done in different colours, but still the same shape.

* * * * *

He got to his feet. He was stiff and exhausted, completely drained just from lying on his bed. He scuffed his hair about, trying to wake himself up, and found it pulling, in places, where it was matted and salt-encrusted. He decided to have another shower, and after the shower he dressed in different clothes - complete with underwear.

He took the beer can out of the freezer, put it in a jug, and covered it with boiling water. His stomach was rumbling, so he made a simple lunch of bread, cheese and tomatoes and took it through to the sitting room with a large glass of orange juice. He slid the window fully open - the skateboarders were still there if you listened for them - and sat in his armchair.

When he’d finished his lunch he added the crockery to the collection under the table, and leaned back, contemplative again. He felt ... He sighed deeply. ... _very, very sad._ Calm though. Resigned. There wasn’t really anything left for him to do, or decide. Just get on with life again. _As if nothing had happened?_ He shrugged unconsciously. There would be differences, probably, but was there any point in trying to guess where?

He got up to put a tape on, but barely heard it while it was playing. His mind drifted.

_Take care of yourself, Bodie. Love yourself. Be happy._

Would that be possible? He couldn’t see it. Not the way Bodie was. Not with what had just happened.

_Stay angry with me. Always. Hate me. Tear up my letters. Burn my presents. Wonder what you ever saw in me._

Easier. Not happy, maybe. But not bleeding his soul away into a Doyle-shaped hole. Which he’d been doing even when the hole was filled.

_You’ll be better off without me. You were so generous. So patient. And I was so suspicious. So grudging._

Was that true? It was part of the truth anyway. Not a lie. But that made it sound as if he was leaving for Bodie’s sake, and that wasn’t true. He was leaving for his own sake. He should remember that - not convince himself he was some kind of martyr. He had failed with Bodie in every way.

_Please know I love you._

Previous arguments with friends and lovers had also ended with him holding long conversations with them in his head. The conversations with Ann had been so long and energetic that they’d kept him awake for several days.

After a while, though, he realised that this conversation was different. In all the others he’d been _arguing_ with the other person: trying to put himself in the right and the other in the wrong; it could get vicious. This time ... It wasn’t an argument. There was nothing to win, and there was nothing as simple as right and wrong.

But there was unfinished business, obviously. He still needed to make Bodie happy, or to stop him being hurt. If they never met again, if there were no more fights - that would stop some of the hurt. But what about the damage he’d done in the last year? What about Sunday night?

_Can you apologise for all that? What good can an apology do?_

_I want to make him feel better. I want to know he feels better, so I can stop worrying, stop these conversations. What does that make it? Selfish or generous? And is there anything I can say that might help him? Except “I love you. I like you. The problem is with me, not with you. I’m sorry.”_

Would that help? He didn’t know. It was difficult to imagine what would help Bodie. But there were many things he wished he’d said. Not smart-arse comments for a particular argument, but things he wanted Bodie to understand, to help him make sense of what had happened. Things that wouldn’t hurt him, even if they didn’t help.

Should he say them, then, these things he wished he’d said? Should he ‘phone Bodie and deliver his speech? No. It wouldn’t work. Bodie wouldn’t let him finish, might not even let him start. It would probably end with shouting. He couldn’t stand that.

He could write, though. Bodie might not read it, but he needn’t know that. If he wrote he’d have a chance to sort his thoughts out. And Bodie might read it. If he was careful, and made it obvious that it was all a gentle letter, Bodie might not throw it away immediately. It might be read. It might be understood.

He thought about it for a few minutes before making up his mind. Then he made the preparations: this was going to be difficult, and he didn’t want any distractions. He took the pile of crockery into the kitchen and dumped it in the sink, then he made a pot of coffee, got the biscuits, and settled at the dining table with a pad and pen.

He picked up the pen shortly after three.

* * * * *

It took several drafts, but by five he felt he’d done all he could. The final version of the letter started with an apology and a request for reassurance:

> Dear Bodie,
> 
> Please forgive me for Sunday night. I was stupid and thoughtless. I never meant to upset you. I thought I would be helping you, but you were right, I was interfering in something that’s none of my business, a copper to the end. The more I think about what I did, the more I realise how restrained you were. I hate to think how I would have reacted in your position. I have been worrying about you, though, because you were very upset when I left and it hurts to think of you coping alone with the sort of shock I gave you. I know I don’t deserve any kind of reassurance or favour from you, but I would really like to know that you’re OK. Could you write me a letter, or send me a post card, anything to let me know that you’re alright?
> 
> I’m sorry that things have ended so badly between us, though of course the ending could never have been easy when we both still love each other (or we both did until Sunday. I love you very much, but I wouldn’t blame you if you hated me). You probably don’t understand why I think there’s no future for us together. We usually talked about it when I was angry, which isn’t the best time, because I go overboard when I’m angry (as you know), and because it makes it look as though it’s because you’ve done something wrong, and that’s not it at all. I said a while ago that you were the best friend and the best lover I’ve ever had. It was true then, and it’s true now and I can’t imagine anyone better. I want to explain properly, if I can.
> 
> There are two reasons why we have to split up, and if they’re anyone’s fault, they’re mine. The first reason is our jobs, with the security problems and the need to hide things. I thought at first that I could deal with it, but that was probably because I hadn’t really thought it through at all. You had, and I blamed you for all of it, and made you take responsibility for it and that was unfair, because I’m not prepared to quit the force any more than you’re prepared to quit CI5. I can’t imagine either of us in different jobs and you were right to take it all seriously. But I can’t live a double life indefinitely. I found just a year of it depressing, and I couldn’t have stood a week of the sort of high-security you were talking about on Tuesday. I’m sorry. As I say, it’s not your fault. You’ve got more guts and determination than I have.
> 
> The second reason we have to finish is more difficult to explain. It has to do with the way we react to one another, or more the way I react to you. I don’t know how to describe this except to say that it’s extreme. Something about you seems to magnify all of my emotions, bad as well as good, and I can’t deal with it. I found out early on as a copper that I need a calm state of mind to do the job properly, and it took me several years to learn how to control my temper and my moods and get a decent balance. It wasn’t exciting but it worked, and I’m a bloody good copper. Since we’ve been together the balance has been upset. Sometimes it’s been wonderful and you’ve made me feel happy and loved in a way I wouldn’t have thought possible. But sometimes it’s been unbearable, when we’ve argued or upset one another, or when I’ve felt insecure and useless. I have the sort of mind that keeps on worrying at a problem, picking it over, and for some reason, since I met you I’ve done more worrying than in all of the rest of my life. It exhausts me and depresses me and I just can’t face any more of it. I don’t know why it works like that, except that there is something very special between us (I would never deny that, and will never forget it) which means that you’ve woken every part of my personality, including some parts that I can’t deal with. I don’t see how we could change this, since it’s not under our control. I’m sorry, for both of us.
> 
> I know I must have hurt you a lot while we were lovers. I said some terrible things to you, and made you very unhappy. I can’t deny that I have been angry with you sometimes, and baffled by you too, and I put a lot of effort into letting you know it. I should have put the same effort into telling you when I was pleased with you and proud of you, because you deserved to be told, and because I wish you could have better memories of me than the ones I know I’ve left you with. I was pleased with you and proud of you most of the time, from the very beginning. I know you’ve had a hard life even though you never made a fuss about it. You’ve seen a lot of violence and cruelty and (I suspect) very little love and kindness. I have never understood why you aren’t a sadist, because I am sure that with your background, that is what most people would be, including me. But the first time we met you told me that you didn’t enjoy hurting people, and you showed me that it was true. You also showed me that you’re gentle and passionate and funny and soothing. You’re a miracle, Bodie, and I know I’m lucky to have been your lover.
> 
> But I think we’ll be happier apart. The last year hasn’t been a success for either of us, and I think it’s best that we admit it before things get even messier, and just get on with our lives. And we shouldn’t try to be friends, not because we care too little, but because we care too much. We’ve proved that we can seduce one another very easily, and that nothing but trouble comes of it. We’ve become addicted to one another, and the only cure is total abstinence. It’s taken me a long time to accept this, because I really did want it to work between us, and I know I’ll spend the rest of my life comparing people with you and being disappointed.
> 
> I’m sorry I’ve hurt you, Bodie. Please let me know somehow that you’re alright. Take care of yourself.
> 
> love,
> 
> Ray

When he was finished he sealed the letter, and found a stamp in his wallet. The ice around his keys had thawed, and after some minutes of juggling he managed to get the keys out of the can, and went to post his letter in the box on the corner. On the way back he bought himself a bottle of decent red wine - he felt he deserved a treat.

The level in the bottle slowly dropped over the evening. In the early evening he read the Campion novel until he remembered whodunit, then he lounged in front of the television. He felt pleasantly mindless. He’d done all he could with Bodie - no more unfinished business. He probably wouldn’t get a reply. His life was about to get on track again, but there was no point in hurrying it.


	15. Heat-Trace - Chapter 13

## Chapter 13

He woke early on Tuesday morning. It was another beautiful day, and at ten in the morning he went out for a brisk run, wanting to get some benefit from the day while not sweltering in a uniform. The run saw off the last of his hangover and by the time he arrived at the station he could honestly have said that he was feeling good. He should probably have worked on some lingering cold symptoms, but he couldn’t be bothered.

Garrett looked subdued when he saw her in the canteen. He wondered if she was nervous about seeing him after Saturday, hoping she was, since it might stop her bringing it up again; he certainly wasn’t going to give her any help. He sat with MacKenzie in the canteen, and didn’t see Garrett for the rest of the day. At the end of their shift, they caught up with the lads coming out of the pub, and piled back to Medland’s place for a few more beers.

Over the next few days the weather stayed fine and Doyle turned Tuesday’s morning run and late-night drink into a pattern. He decided that lates weren’t so bad: you got the morning to yourself, and in the evening you had time to wind down. They were only difficult if you were fitting your life around civilians.

He enjoyed the drinking sessions. It had been a long time since he’d felt so much a part of the relief. It was important to keep in touch when you were in the car, missing parade, and with an hour less drinking time. On Friday some of the lads went on to a local club after the pubs shut, but without Doyle. Maybe if there hadn’t been work the next day ... There were a few comments about his increased sociability, which he answered with a grin and a shrug.

On Thursday he suggested to Garrett that she join them one evening, but she just coughed in astonishment, and shook her head. There had been no suggestion on either side of a return match at “Frogger”.

* * * * *

Bodie’s letter arrived in the second post on Thursday morning. Doyle smiled on picking it up from the mat and seeing the handwriting on the envelope. He’d written practically by return of post - that probably meant he was feeling fine - not moping, anyway. He might be livid, of course. Doyle could cope if the letter was a stream of abuse, but he’d rather do it with a coffee in his hand.

He sat in his armchair to open the letter. He felt slightly apprehensive, wondering what he was going to read about himself.

There was a single sheet of stiff, good-quality paper. Doyle unfolded it. In the top corner, close to the edge of the paper, Bodie had written, “I’m alright.”. There was nothing else.

Doyle stared at the sheet and swallowed. Was it a grim joke? Bodie furious and not impressed with Doyle’s letter, making fun of his concern?

He looked at the envelope, anxious for any clue. It was addressed to “Ray Doyle”, not “Doyle” or “PC Doyle” or “R. Doyle”. That didn’t look like anger, unless that was the only way Bodie ever thought of him.

The words were so strangely placed on the page. Right at the top, as if they were the start of a long, close-written letter. Had Bodie sat down, meaning to write more, then decided there was no point? Maybe. Maybe this was started as a draft, then Bodie had read Doyle’s letter a few more times and given up, and just posted it the way it was.

He put the sheet back in the envelope, and laid the envelope face down on the table. He turned away from it while he drank his coffee. Should he believe those words? And if he didn’t, was there anything more he could do? It looked as if Bodie had decided not to waste any more time on him.

When he’d finished his coffee he put the envelope in the box in his bedroom with all his other letters from Bodie. Some of them he knew by heart. Would he ever read them again? He pondered the question during his morning run.

* * * * *

On Sunday he was very conscious of what had happened a week before. He felt restless more than anything else, wanting to make sure he didn’t sit at home and brood. He wished the lads had organised a party, or a day at the beach. He wanted to be entertained.

He lay in bed trying to design a schedule, but everything in London seemed stale, or too crowded. He could take off for the beach himself. No, the beach would be OK in a crowd with the lads, but on his own, surrounded by other people’s crowds ... It would drive him up the wall. Somewhere quiet, then, away from the coast.

He finally settled on the Cotswolds, about which he knew nothing except it was all little thatched villages with quaint pubs. He’d drive out, find a B&B for the night, and just tour.

It took him an hour to get through London onto the M4. After that it was easy. By driving at random he found a village that seemed to have no amenities except the pub and a post-office, but did have quantities of thatch and flowers. He asked in the post-office about accommodation, was given two addresses, and booked into the first one in the early afternoon.

He spent the rest of the afternoon on a long walk. The weather was deteriorating gently: clouds formed, dispersed and reformed, frustrating to sun-bathers. The scenery was also gentle - it seemed to be a landscape that liked having people in it. He was glad he’d come.

The solitary drive and walk hadn’t taken his mind off Bodie, but they’d got him away from the place where he’d done most of his thinking about the man.

He was missing him - for company, for sex, for the pleasure of being able to look at him and smile at him any time he wanted. He didn’t think he was being self-indulgent. The loss of Bodie had left large gaps in his sex life and his social life - it was natural to be aware of them. He hadn’t consciously thought about filling them, but he saw now that he’d been working at it.

This trip was part of it - filling the gap with himself, showing that Ray Doyle could enjoy something new on his own. It might have been even better with Bodie - but it was fine as it was. This was the balance he’d talked about in the letter. Obviously, he had to keep reminding himself that he didn’t need the extremes - couldn’t afford them. It was going to be difficult for a while, but he could work at filling the gaps.

* * * * *

He spent the evening in the pub. The locals didn’t go out of their way to welcome him, but after he’d insinuated himself into a darts’ match and bought an expensive round, they were willing to talk.

In bed that night he did miss Bodie. It was a long time since he’d slept in a strange bed, or so it seemed. In Africa there had been many very strange beds, but with Bodie in them, they had become home for the night.

The duvet was too fluffy and too warm. He kicked it off. His hand drifted, open-palmed, across his chest, paused to tease a nipple with the edge of his thumb. Then slowly down to his groin, combing through the thickening hairs to announce his intention, enjoying the anticipation. He cupped his sex in his hand, feeling the pulse and the hardening, but making no further move.

This was the point in his leisurely wanks when he chose his fantasy. He usually had at least one on the go, to be elaborated on until it became too silly and had to be thrown away. The current one, which he hadn’t used in weeks, featured a call-out to a large, derelict house (reason not supplied) which contained a dark, powerful man who could have given classes in liberating policemen from their uniforms. It was Bodie. Mostly. Certainly, it was no one else he knew.

He couldn’t use that fantasy, or any further fantasies about Bodie. It wasn’t healthy. But there were no others waiting to take its place. He had to search out a new sex life for himself. It sounded like hard work. It was hard to imagine being close to anyone else, working up the necessary enthusiasm. Maybe it was just exhaustion. Bodie had offered more closeness than he could deal with.

But he couldn’t decide what he wanted next, or who. A man, or a woman? Romance, or sex? He wished Alison were still in town - her benign indifference would be perfect for him now.

All these complications had spoilt his mood. He couldn’t be bothered now. He removed his hand and turned onto his side. The mood would come back, though, and get more and more urgent. Should he try to plan for it, or just see who came along? He fell asleep wondering.

* * * * *

Back at work on Monday night he didn’t mention his trip to MacKenzie, or to Garrett when they met at tea-break. She, however, was full of her latest discoveries from random tours of London. He supposed it was her way of getting out of the section house. Over the last two days she’d seen a Spanish-style courtyard in South Kensington, and a Norwegian church in Rotherhithe. “I don’t know where you find the energy,” was his only comment.

On Wednesday it started raining, and continued, on and off, for the next week. Doyle kept up his jogging, telling himself it was only water.

He toned down the drinking, however, never having found a safe way of fitting it in while he was on nights. He was still considered part of the group, though, and was invited as a matter of course to the piss-up in Woods’ flat on Sunday. “Oh, I’ll be there.” But privately he decided he wouldn’t stay long - he was getting too old to throw brain-cells away so casually.

As it turned out, Doyle was in the centre of the group that piled into Woods’ flat carrying packs of beer. Woods had stocked up on pizzas and crisps: the crisps disappeared in the first half-hour; the pizzas were incinerated on an irregular schedule determined by the struggle between hunger and indolence.

It was a quiet affair. The week had been active but easy, and there was little excess energy or aggression to dissipate. Doyle had planned to leave when things got boisterous, but they never did, so he stayed propped up against the angle of the bay window until his pack of beer was finished.

He didn’t join in much - he rarely did these days - just watched and listened. He didn’t feel left out. It was years since he’d felt he had to make his point in every single pub argument, and now he got more satisfaction from other people’s arguments; after all, wasn’t that what policework was all about? A couple of times, when debate became heated or was foundering through lack of facts, he was called on to referee. He could get to like that.

During his third beer, while the talk was on cricket, which he openly despised, he stared at the curtain rail and thought profound thoughts.

_I feel as if I’ve just come back to the force after a long absence. As if I’ve just now stepped off the boat from Africa. I don’t think anyone noticed how far away I was, not even me. I’d adjusted, and it seemed normal._

_But I’m home now, and everything looks fresh and new, and it was worth being away just to see things like this._

_I think I’m a better cop for it too. Calmer. Less concerned about myself. Not like Sawyer over there who has to bring himself into every single story. But I don’t feel ... withdrawn. This lot accept me just as I am._

He smiled to himself, and tipped his head back as he drained the can. On his final can, the talk moved from cricket to gynaecology; he contributed stories with and without prompting, and chose the traditional narrative style, which scorns self-effacement.

* * * * *

As August wore on he started to ration his trips to the pub. He’d found that twice a week was more than enough to keep up with the news, and to get automatic invitations to any “parties”. He made a policy decision to do more with his free time.

 His imagination was taking a rest, though. Mostly he watched TV or played computer games. At the end of the month Bodie’s name still dominated the “Frogger” Hall of Fame. Doyle felt ... something, whenever he saw that screen, but he didn’t let it stop him playing.

Sometimes he wandered down to King’s Cross for an early copy of the next day’s newspaper. He read books. Slowly. In the third week in August, he started reading Volume 1 of Solzhenitsyn’s “The Gulag Archipelago”, feeling very virtuous and wondering who would catch the name if he dropped it. In the fourth week he gave up. He couldn’t keep track of who was who, and had to start from the beginning every time he picked the book up. After that he read a few detective novels, managing at least two chapters a night before falling asleep.

He was more satisfied with his mornings. He was surprising himself with how well he was keeping up the jogging; it was less sickening each day. After coming home and showering he usually went out again for coffee. He was doing the rounds of the local cafes, taking a paper for cover while keeping his ears open; he wasn’t spying, just settling in at home again after that long absence.

People talked to him sometimes, usually starting by letting off steam about an item in the news. He’d sit and nod, echoing their opinion when they seemed to expect it, often echoing the opposite opinion in the next cafe over his second cup of coffee. He didn’t argue - that wasn’t the point. The staff got to know him quickly; in most places they poured his coffee as soon as he walked in the door. He avoided the cafes where he thought he was known as a policeman; it made things easier.

* * * * *

A late-night jazz club had opened off the High Street. The main programme didn’t start until eleven, which was perfect for lates. He mentioned it to the lads, but they weren’t interested. He wanted live entertainment, but he also wanted company, and he thought of asking Garrett. She declined.

“I thought you liked jazz.”

She shrugged. “I can take it or leave it.”

“Oh. I’ll go on my own then. I just thought you might like to give it a try.”

She showed no signs of reconsidering.

He went on his own and decided he didn’t like jazz all that much. The sound was pleasant enough, but he couldn’t concentrate on it in near-darkness for an hour. He must be missing something. With each new number he tried hard to follow the action, but after a minute he was tuning it out and thinking of something completely different.

_Is Garrett pissed off with me? She’s not exactly sulking, but she’s nowhere near as chatty as she used to be. She hasn’t said a word about her last days off, and she’s usually full of her finds. And she usually likes to have a good rant about the force at least once a week, but there’s been nothing for three weeks._

_I don’t see how she can be pissed off with me since I haven’t done anything. I did all I could to show it didn’t matter about that Monday. Maybe she was more embarrassed than she seemed and she’s taking ages to get over it. Doesn’t sound like her._

_She’s probably met some other stroppy graduates at those clubs we picked out and doesn’t need to bend my ear any more. That’s probably it. I’ll ask about the clubs tomorrow. I hope she_ is _settling in to the force. It’s about time._

Towards the end of the month Garrett went away on holiday for a fortnight. She went to Edinburgh for a week, combining a dutiful visit to her family with the Festival, and then went to Malta with Cathy.

While she was away Doyle started going to shooting practice on Wednesday evenings again. When he went along he wasn’t sure if he wanted to get into competition again, but Tony the team captain was obviously pleased to see him, and his shooting seemed to have improved in the brief rest, so the second week he found himself agreeing to take part in a national police tournament in Manchester at the end of October. At work the next day he booked that weekend as holiday.

A fortnight of bad weather at the beginning of September increased his reading rate. He browsed in Islington bookshops, trying to get some idea of what other people were reading. He tended to buy bestsellers or other books that he knew were famous for some reason, while avoiding anything that looked too trashy, or too difficult. Of a batch of five novels, he reckoned to finish four and enjoy two.

When Garrett came back she was looking tanned and healthy. The week in Malta had included a scuba-diving course, and she was obviously longing to go back. Doyle asked her about it in the canteen on Monday night, her first shift back.

“I didn’t know you were into swimming and stuff like that.”

“I’m not. Or I wasn’t. Cathy arranged it all without telling me. Or if she did tell me, she whispered. I don’t like swimming, not for the sake of it. All that thrashing around in lanes being yelled at by a sadist in a tracksuit. But being under water’s different. It’s like dropping into another world. Well, It _is_ dropping into another world. But even without the fish and the seaweed, it’s ... special. You’re sealed away from everything except yourself. Your thoughts seem very loud ...” She shrugged, and smiled. She was more animated than he’d seen her for over a month.

“Are you going to carry on here? Find a club or something?”

“I don’t know. I’ll look into it. It depends how much effort it’s going to be. If it means giving up weekends and trekking off to Wales ... Well, it’s fun, but it’s not that much fun. I’ll probably just wait until next year.”

He asked about Edinburgh and her family.

“The Festival was the same as ever. I saw about ten shows. They were all OK. Most of them are down here now if you’re interested. But they were all groups I’d seen before and knew I could trust. I’m must be getting very conservative. These days I’m not prepared to risk a fiver and two hours of my time on the offchance that a bunch of students I’ve never heard of might be the 80s’ answer to Monty Python.”

She smiled and quirked her eyebrows. He twitched his lips back, thinking that the remark about getting conservative was actually a boast about how well she followed the theatre.

“Did you get those computing exercises?”

She blinked and frowned. “What exercises?”

“You remember a while ago I said I wanted to do some more-advanced programming. And you said -“

“Oh, shit.” She rapped her head sharply with her knuckles. “I forgot all about it. Sorry.”

“It’s OK. I -“

“I’ll phone my mum this evening, and ask her to send them down.”

“There’s no hurry. I probably won’t look at them until winter anyway. But I would like to see them. I’ve still got no ideas of my own.”

Garrett nodded. “I’ll give her a ring.”

* * * * *

When they next met, on Thursday night, Garrett didn’t mention the exercises and Doyle decided not to ask; there was no point in pestering, especially when there was no urgency.

After that first enthusiasm, she seemed more subdued than when she went on holiday. He guessed she was having trouble settling back into the routine. On Saturday he talked generally about the period of disbelief after a good holiday, when working eight hours a day seems cruel and unreasonable after a week of pleasing yourself. She nodded glumly, but didn’t seem to have the energy to carry her end of the conversation. He thought of inviting her round for a meal but was undecided; he’d see how he felt by the end of their week.

On Monday morning they bumped into on another in the corridor, and Garrett said, as if suddenly remembering something, “Oh. Do you think I could have my computer back?”

“Course.” He was about to ask how long she wanted it for, then thought that that would sound as if he was lending it to her. He wanted to know, but hesitated while trying to think of the right way to ask. She’d probably let him have it back when the exercises arrived from Edinburgh.

“Can I collect it at the end of shift?”

He nodded. “I’ll drop it off at the section house if you like.”

“This afternoon?”

He nodded again. “Why don’t you come back to my place at about half three, and I’ll give you both a lift.”

“Thanks.”

* * * * *

At Doyle’s flat, they loaded the computer and its accessories into the back-pack that Garrett had brought with her; she had come prepared. As an exit, it was far less dramatic than the entrance, when Garrett had juggled carrier bags and joked about the machine’s personality. Doyle looked at her as she bent to zip up the back-pack. _She’s different. She hasn’t called it “she” once. Is she more business-like? She’s certainly easier to work with these days, not winding people up nearly as much. But I miss the old Ruth. I wonder if she does._

He decided. “Do you fancy coming round for a meal this evening? It won’t be anything special, but ...”

She stood up, donning the back-pack carefully. “Thanks, but I’m meeting friends from college.”

“Some Tuesday, then.” All of their leaves were on Tuesdays that month.

“Yes. Thanks.” She smiled.

The subject was not raised again, and the Tuesdays went by until September was over. Garrett did not mention what she was doing with the computer, or suggest a date when she would be finished.

* * * * *

Doyle was finding police work easier than ever. He strode through the shifts, untroubled by panic, doubts or anger. He wasn’t bored; he felt himself glowing inside and out with a limitless fascination with people. He wondered if he was in danger of getting promoted; he knew he was close to being the perfect copper and thought it must be obvious to everyone. Would he consider taking promotion to Sergeant? He couldn’t see there was much point apart from the money, and he wouldn’t see as much of the street. No, he hadn’t changed in that.

 Shooting was going unusually well. Over the eight years since he’d first picked up a gun he’d found that his talent fluctuated - never falling short of remarkable, but still subject to variations that seemed independent of his mood or effort. At first this had been very frustrating, but eventually he’d accepted that there was an underlying trend, and it was steady improvement. Now he just put in the practice, sure it would show an effect one day, and made sure he was calm and rested for competitions.

He tried not to get too cocky or downcast by the highs or lows, but when a high continued smoothly for weeks, as this one did during September and October, it was hard to ignore. Tony, the team captain, was obviously delighted, and confident about the approaching competition. Doyle started practising on his own at least two days a week, putting in an hour before work. He frequently bumped into Tony or other members of the team.

It was Tony who suggested that he get his own gun. “I don’t say it makes a huge difference. But it’s one less thing to worry about. And once you’ve worked with your own for a while, you notice it when you get lumbered with one from the pool.”

“Sounds as if you just get set in your ways. Forget what it’s like to get the feel of a new piece.”

Tony shrugged and shifted his head slowly in indifferent concession. “Could be. Depends if you want to be the ultimate all-round marksman or to win competitions. There’s nothing to stop you using a pool gun once in a while, to prove you can do it. But as captain I’d be happier if everyone in the team was using his own gun. Like I said, it’s one less thing to worry about.”

Doyle still looked dubious, but his right hand had already made his mind up for him; these days it was dreaming about holding a gun, feeling the weight and texture for days after the reality had been signed back in. It wanted one of its own, that would never be used by anyone else.

On his next day off, Doyle went into the station and had an interview with the Firearms Officer that was a sociable formality. Tony was gracious in victory the next time they bumped into one another on the range. There was no immediate difference in Doyle’s performance, but there was a satisfaction in ownership he hadn’t expected. Everything about his weapon was beautiful to him, down to the slim, foam-padded aluminium case that he locked conscientiously, and kept in the cover of a gutted dictionary on the bottom shelf of a bookcase - in his extensive experience burglars were rarely that thorough.

* * * * *

By the middle of October he’d caught up with every film he wanted to see, and some he wished he hadn’t. Trying to discuss them with MacKenzie made him hope Garrett would be in the canteen, and even wonder how Terry was doing. MacKenzie _never_ talked about people, not really, not about what was or might be going on inside their heads, whether they should have behaved they way they did. Doyle had never thought of himself as a ... gossip, but he couldn’t help but see a life that centred on rugby and car-chases and anatomical measurements as rather arid.

He was glad when he got back on the beat on the 18th of October and away from MacKenzie, even though there was no probationer for him to tutor this time. But even Garrett seemed to have got boring, or maybe just content. There were no more fuming accounts of visits to uncomprehending friends, or rants about her immature neighbours in the section house. In fact, films were almost all they _did_ talk about, when they were on patrol together.

* * * * *

As the shooting competition drew nearer, he started spending nearly all his free time at the range. He hadn’t worked this hard for a very long time. He was getting to know his gun. At times he thought of it as if it were alive; when he caught himself doing this he was amused and not worried. He didn’t give it a name, but he felt real affection for it.

The team took a mini-bus to Manchester on the Friday afternoon before the competition. The tournament was scheduled for all-day Saturday, with the local team laying on entertainment for the evening.

The team was staying in a B&B near the city centre. They checked in, Doyle and Salmon found their twin room and unpacked, and then they all headed out again to explore Manchester. Tony wasn’t very subtle about keeping an eye on their drinking, but it wasn’t necessary anyway - they were all taking the competition very seriously, and treating their night out as a team-building exercise rather than a holiday.

Undressing in front of Salmon was as awkward as Doyle had thought it would be. He didn’t know if the man watched him or not. It didn’t matter - he imagined hungry male eyes, and turned his back to hide his own hunger. It had been far too long since he’d shared a room with another person. He’d have to do something about that.

Sleep came slowly, and when he woke he knew he’d dreamed of Bodie: a disjointed dream set in a large seaside hotel; they were supposed to meet in the bar, but he couldn’t find it and had wandered for hours along shabby corridors, knowing from the beginning that he was too late, and Bodie had already given up and gone. _What else had happened?_ The dream faded as he tried to focus on it. He hoped he hadn’t talked in his sleep. Salmon just asked how he’d slept.

* * * * *

The competition wasn’t the success they’d hoped. Doyle’s upward curve seemed to have ended abruptly. The post mortem sessions on the journey back would blame over-confidence, sloppiness, the distractions of foreign territory, and just plain bad luck. The team was still a team even when it lost, and the team knew that it wasn’t fair to dump everything on a single member, so no one would mention the demoralising effect of seeing Doyle, who shot first and was their great hope, making a near-complete hash of it. They recovered towards the end - even Doyle - but not enough to get into the top five.

When the competition ended they went back to the guest house, all very subdued. Seldon asked, “Why don’t we just go straight back to town?” No one answered, though everyone knew that they couldn’t go back because it would look as if they were running away.

Doyle showered and changed, then lay on his bed flicking through a local newspaper, waiting for half six when they were supposed to be heading out again. The local team had taken an upper room at a pub and had been hinting throughout the match about fabulous entertainments they’d laid on.

The Londoners stopped at another pub on the way, and Doyle immediately announced that it was his round. He wasn’t usually so quick to volunteer, but he felt that he owed them. He got the group talking again too, using a few stories about Garrett to start the ever-popular topics of clueless graduates and the inability of the police system to recognise or reward real coppering. By the time they arrived in the upper room they felt like unsung heroes, and the mistakes of the day were largely forgotten.

There was lots of free beer. At first the various teams formed huddles, but these loosened as acquaintances from other forces arrived and introductions were made. It was a large room, but by nine o’clock it was very crowded, and the only women in the room were the two barmaids. It was like any other night out with the lads, just on a large scale. The conversation concentrated on sport, cars, sex, guns, and the force.

Doyle let it wash over him as usual, feeling no need to make a good impression. He watched and listened. When he spoke it was usually to turn the conversation in a particular direction because he wanted to see the reaction.

At ten thirty there was another woman in the room: she was a stripper and she was greeted with great enthusiasm. The crowd of men shifted constantly as the individuals struggled to improve their view. Doyle, at the back, stood on a chair. He would have been happier to sit in it and carry on with his drink, but there would have been comments. He did not join in the shouting.

He’d seen strip-shows before, of course. Probably two or three a year since he’d become a full member of the force. There had been a time when he’d really enjoyed them for their own sake. Then he’d gained some serious sexual experience and got bored with being teased. And then he’d decided that they were interesting: provided you watched the men, and ignored the girl.

This was the first since Africa, and Bodie. A lot had changed since then, but his bisexuality was the least of it. The case that had taken him to Africa had shown him things about London’s sex industry that he couldn’t forget. Not horrors, exactly, but a suffocating boredom and contempt that stifled desire. Then there had been ben Yussef, who had shown his prize to many men before Bodie turned up. He’d glared at them all, nostrils flared, but they hadn’t seemed to notice, just patted his head. As if the gag and the ropes were part of a game he was playing with them all.

Maybe the woman on the little stage was enjoying this. Maybe she wasn’t.

 _Do we care?_ He looked around the room. _No, we don’t._

He didn’t watch any more, just tipped his head back, and finished his drink slowly.

Afterwards he and Tony collected the team’s glasses and slowly opened a path to the beer kegs. When they got back, there was a three-way argument going on between the Met, Tyne and Wear, and Greater Manchester as to which did the _real_ work. Doyle had heard these arguments before - he even used to take part in them. This one was mild, and soon it turned into a communal moan about all ranks above Inspector. Doyle leant against the wall, by now quite tired.

Salmon said, “I will say one thing for you lot. You’ve got a Chief Constable who knows what’s what. Isn’t afraid to speak up for decent people. Bloody pinkos have just _taken over_ in London. We could do with someone like Anderton on our side.”

There was a dark murmur of agreement from everyone except Doyle.

A young local said, “Yeah, he’s cleaned this town up. The perverts steer clear of Manchester these days. If they know what’s good for them.”

Salmon was obviously a fan. “And he’s a good Christian, of course. Now, I’m not much of a church-goer myself ...” He looked round to see if anyone was going to condemn him for this, but they were all nodding understandingly. Except Doyle. “... but it stands to reason that if you know the Bible, you know the difference between right and wrong. If you ask me, that’s what’s wrong with the kids today. And the teachers don’t help. Just encourage them, if you ask me. In my day - “ - Salmon was twenty two - “we had respect for authority. Now it seems there’s only a few good Christians left, and most of them are too frightened to speak up.”

An older local man: “You’re right. There’s no respect. For instance, there was none of this bleating about _rights_ when I joined the force. Now every crackpot’s at it. Animal Rights. Gay Rights. _Gay Rights._ I ask you. In _Manchester_?” Salmon interrupted, and appealed to the group, “How can you have rights when you’re doing something that’s completely unnatural?” There was a burst of laughter. When it died down he continued, “The queers should be grateful we don’t burn them. They used to, you know, in the Middle Ages.”

“Yeah, but that was when the church had some real clout,” said Tony. “It sounds as if Anderton’s the only one taking a stand. And he hasn’t managed to keep the queers out completely. Someone was telling me there’s a couple of clubs give you lots of trouble.”

The older local agreed. “But he makes it quite clear they’re not welcome, which is more than most have the guts to. So we pay them more visits than we do other clubs.” He smiled, showing uneven teeth. “They won’t keep their licences for ever. And they don’t get any help from the landlords or the suppliers or ... anyone else they deal with.”

“Same with the sex shops,” said the younger man. “There was one round the corner a couple of years ago. Disgusting it was, by all accounts. Queer magazines and stuff like that. To think kids might get hold of it.” He shook his head and everyone looked serious. “There’d been some protests. Neighbours, y’know. But nothing happened until he started in. Put the fear of God into the council.” He looked surprised when there was laughter, seemed to realise what he’d said, and laughed himself. “Well, he did. The licence wasn’t renewed, and that was the last of them. There’s still some newsagents get some dodgy stuff, but we’re working on that and he’s still on the case too. Just wait. One of these days this city’s going to be -“

“- so clean you could eat your dinner off it?” finished Salmon, to more laughter and vigorous nods.

“Too bloody true,” said the Mancunians, in near-unison.

Doyle levered himself off the wall, raised his head, and took a large swallow of warm lager before saying, “I guess you’re going to make sure he doesn’t find out about this evening, then.” He gestured in the direction of the stage. Ten pairs of eyes looked at him blankly, so he continued, “If he’s so strong on porn, he won’t want his coppers having strip shows, will he?”

There was a baffled silence, then Salmon said, “Only _real_ porn, Ray.”

Doyle opened his mouth as if in an “ahhh” of understanding, though he made no sound. He resumed his slouch against the wall, while the locals reassured the visitors.

“He’s only after the perverts. After all, it’s not as if he’s a fanatic or anything.”

“He’s a reasonable bloke. Come up from the beat, you gotta be, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, he doesn’t mind his lads having a bit of harmless fun. In fact, he pops in sometimes at this sort of do. Oh, and you remember three years ago, and that Christmas issue of _Brief_ -“ He caught his colleague’s eye, made scooping motions in the region of his nipples, and they both sniggered. When they’d recovered, he explained, “ _Brief_ ’s the local copper’s mag, and he cheered us up one Christmas by finding our sexiest WPC and putting her on the cover. Got a _Daily Mail_ photographer in, and everything.” He waited for his audience to sound correctly impressed. “And he insisted on doing the judging himself, too. So he’s OK.”

Salmon asked about the cover and the general standard of the competition, which started a prolonged and energetic complaint about the poor quality of police crumpet.

Doyle kept to his wall and didn’t bother to pretend he was following the conversation. He wanted a strong drink. His lager tasted revolting, not even refreshing anymore. But he couldn’t just head off for the bar on his own, and he certainly wouldn’t suggest a round to this lot. _Unless ..._ He nudged the nearest local. “Which way’s the bog?”

He made his way back via the bar and a double Scotch which barely touched his mouth on the way down. His space against the wall had been filled, and in his new position between Tony and Seldon he was required to contribute. He wondered when they’d be able to leave. They had an extension (though who was going to book them if they hadn’t?), and it could go on for hours.

When the beer ran out the numbers thinned, but Tony had come prepared to treat or console the team, and the rounds kept coming. Eventually Doyle found a low chair with arms and slumped in it staring at his drink, visibly withdrawn. His team-mates looked at him and then at each other, muttered, “The match,” nodded and then left him largely alone. Shortly past two in the morning, Tony shook his shoulder to get his attention, and they all staggered down the stairs into the frosty night.

Back in his room, Doyle was no longer worried about a physical reaction to Salmon. In fact, nothing was easier than to ignore him. He washed, drank a large amount of near-freezing water from hands cupped under the tap, and dropped his clothes on the floor before sliding into the lumpy bed. He did not close his eyes. The room was not as stationary as he would have liked, but he was sure it would settle down soon enough. He was lying on his back, concentrating on a patch of wallpaper when Salmon came back from the bathroom.

“I didn’t know you were religious, Ray,” he said in a tone of surprised respect.

Doyle looked at him, frowning. “I’m not.”

“Oh. But I thought ... When you said about the stripper, I thought maybe you were really strict ...”

Doyle shook his head, not in the mood to try to explain. If Salmon hadn’t seen any connection at the time, he wouldn’t see one now. _Was there ever a time when I was as sure as he is who the “decent people” are?_ Salmon turned his light out, and eventually Doyle slept.

* * * * *

The mini-bus dropped him off at the station in the middle of Sunday afternoon, and he walked back to his flat. He put his gun case back on the bookshelf, emptied his holdall into the laundry basket, got a strong, black coffee, and then slumped in his armchair with his head propped on his fist. Not a good weekend. To think he’d wasted three days leave on that fiasco.

 _What happened?_ He didn’t know. As he’d stepped forward to shoot he’d felt that tingling light-headedness, as if the top of his skull has just been lifted off. But that was just the buzz of competition and anticipation - a friend, if you knew how to harness it.

“I screwed up. That’s all,” he said aloud. Sometimes you never figure out why. Just have to go back next time and show that you can do it. He stood up suddenly and turned on the TV. He flicked over the rugby, endured a minute of some heads talking European politics, and finally settled on a black-and-white film with Victorian costumes. He found out at the first set of adverts that it was “David Copperfield”. By the second set he’d given up hope of working out the plot so far, but kept it on for company.

It got dark before the film was over. He drew the curtains and switched on the table lamp. Soon he started to feel chilly, so he went into the kitchen and turned on the central heating, and made another coffee while he was there. The radiator was behind the settee, which didn’t make its job of radiating any easier. But Doyle rarely felt the cold, and it hadn’t seemed worth re-arranging the furniture for something that was only used a few times a year. Half an hour later, though, he was just as chilly, so he shoved the settee and the table out of the way, and dragged his chair around so he could warm his feet and still watch TV out of the corner of his eye.

When the film finished he flicked channels, then rummaged through his video tapes, then flicked channels again. The “Tom and Jerry” cartoon held him, then the gardening lost him, and he turned the sound down. _Typical. I want a nice juicy story to get my teeth into and take my mind off things, and all I get is gardening and rugby. Stuff that wouldn’t strain the brain-cells of a turnip._

He went to the bookshelf and looked through his latest purchases for something that looked like a nice juicy story. He settled down again with “The Choirboys”, and shuffled his chair so that it was facing the radiator; he’d found himself shivering, even though the metal was almost too hot to touch.

After a couple of chapters he put the book to one side. It certainly wasn’t boring, but it wasn’t combining well with his hangover. _Is policework in the States really that ... hard? He has to be exaggerating. No one would stand it. No civilian would go near a copper if they were the way he says. He has to be making it up. He’s been watching too much TV._

He picked up the book again, and searched for a biographical note. It was on the first page; he hadn’t noticed it - he never bothered with them. _A homicide detective for 14 years._ He pursed his lips, considering. _Still. He has to he exaggerating._ He put it down again, and craned his neck round to the TV. More rugby now.

He slumped back again and for the next few minutes amused himself trying to get his toes comfortable on the scalding radiator. The heat really didn’t travel very far. He hadn’t noticed before. He eased himself closer, but it was still like having his feet under the grill and his shoulders in the freezer compartment. He gave up and changed into his thickest tracksuit and a chunky sweater that had been a present from Ann.

Back in the sitting room he looked over his bookshelves again. Why didn’t he have any straightforward thrillers? And why did he have such a good memory for detective plots?

His gaze fell on the cluster of polar books on the bottom shelf near his gun, and his temperature dropped again. _I ought to get rid of those. I’m never going to read them again._ He moved them to the dining table to remind himself to take them to Oxfam. _Though I suppose they show that cold can be psychological. Wish I had the same sort of stuff for feeling warm._

In the end he took a pile of bike magazines, and spent a happy hour drawing up a shopping list. He couldn’t see any problems with materialism - what could be purer than the pleasure of seeing something beautiful and planning how to get it?

When he emerged, it was nearly seven o’clock, and on the screen a congregation was singing silently at him. “Oh, Jesus.” He turned the set off, then stood in the middle of the room, frowning with discontentment. He still wanted to be distracted, and nothing was working. Oh, to be a teenager again, when being miserable was a status symbol. The past year had given him enough grief to see the decade out, and he just wanted to duck and let this lot fly by. Why stand up and take it full in the face?

People could be a good distraction, if they were the right kind of people. At the moment, Garrett would be the right kind. She’d be on his side against Anderton, and he couldn’t say that about most people he knew. _Even Bodie -_ No. He wasn’t thinking about Bodie these days.

Yeah, if he invited Garrett round, he could have a quick moan about the weekend, and then they’d have their usual quiet-shift-chat over a bottle of wine. His hangover had no strong objections so he dialled the section house and asked for her, mentally rehearsing the invitation while he waited: _Hi. I know it’s short notice, but I got back from Manchester sooner than I expected, and I wondered if you fancied coming round for that meal._

She wasn’t in.

He stopped himself slamming the phone down, and sat clacking his teeth in an aimless, shifting rhythm while he tried to think of other people whose personality he trusted and whose phone number he knew.

There was no one. Depressing? He shook his head involuntarily. No. He’d managed perfectly well on his own for most of his life. At the moment he was still a bit below par, obviously, or he wouldn’t be so ... dependent. Only three months, after all. He just wasn’t properly prepared for a tedious Sunday in; he should stock up on distractions - get really self-sufficient.

He frowned and sighed. Three months. Three months could seem like a geological age, or like the blink of a lizard’s eye. Some could be both at once. His talks with Garrett seemed compressed and all very recent: as if just last week she’d asked if he was gay, and the next day been raving about skin-diving, and the next asked for her computer back.

But three months without sex, almost without a wank or a wet dream ... That didn’t seem possible - not for Ray Doyle in the prime of his life. The sperm must be packed in like the Northern Line during rush hour; stopped in a tunnel outside Camden Town with no announcements, no explanations.

He never let himself think about it as _three months since I last had sex._ It was just _three months without sex_. On their own. It didn’t matter what had happened before. The need wasn’t urgent, but he felt there was something missing from his life, and he wanted to be complete.

But in those three months there hadn’t been a single prospect. Before - _No. Not “before”_ \- Two years ago it had been so easy: a woman caught his eye, a date was set, a fun few weeks till she realised the shift system was never going to stop, and then ... The end depended on the woman; hot or cold, it never bothered him. There had been few gaps.

Maybe he was getting old. Maybe he was skimping on eye contact. Maybe he needed a change of scene; there were only so many police groupies. Do an evening class or something. Meet some civilians. Might even learn something.

“That’s not a bad idea.” _I wonder if that place on the corner sells “Floodlight”. I want to look for an evening class_ now.

He picked up his keys and his wallet and went shopping. He came back with “Floodlight”, two thrillers on video, tinned tomatoes, and grated parmesan cheese. By the time he settled down with a bowl of pasta to watch the first film, he’d decided to try a pottery class and had circled a few local ones to ‘phone the next day.

Exhaustion caught up with him before the end of the second film.

On Monday morning it was a long time before he admitted to himself that he was awake, and longer before he raised his head to look at the clock. 10.51. He immediately felt defensive, and wavered for a minute between the extremes of getting up immediately and going jogging, or staying in bed all day. He got up to get coffee and a yoghurt, then took them back to bed.

By then he was awake enough to appreciate how pleasant sleep had been. There was no hiding from the fact that he was very depressed, with no hangover or adrenaline drop to blame now. It was a dull, suet-like depression, with no interest in anything except telling itself over and over how low it was feeling. The causes were irrelevant.

After the second cup of coffee he got up. Bed had lost its charm.

He ‘phoned about the evening classes and discovered they all still had places free. There seemed little to choose between them, so he decided on the one nearest, which was on Tuesdays. That small achievement improved his mood slightly, and gave him the energy to start on the housework.

By the time he sat down with a sandwich he’d realised that he shouldn’t let the depression have what it wanted, which was his full attention. He should force himself to do things, and those little kicks of achievement might lift him over the edge. It wasn’t a matter of finding distractions - not like the day before: then he’d _wanted_ to do things, wanted to enjoy them and be absorbed by them; now he _wanted_ to do nothing, and would get no enjoyment from any activity until it was over and he could say to himself, “At least I didn’t stay in bed all day.”

He wondered how he was so sure of how to cure himself. He couldn’t remember tackling anything similar before. Of course, he’d had times of feeling lousy, feeling that his life wasn’t going the way he wanted. The last year had been crammed with those times. But they hadn’t made him want to stay in bed - they’d made him want to fight back, and he’d kept the pressure on the problem until it broke down and told him the solution. That couldn’t work, though, when there was nothing to fight. But action was still the answer. He felt it instinctively.

By the end of the day he was subdued, smelling slightly of chlorine, and several hundred pounds poorer. He had not enjoyed the day, but he had used it. It had not used him.

* * * * *

The next day most of the men of the relief were gathered in their locker room when he arrived, so he didn’t have to repeat his description of the disaster of Saturday more than four times. Garrett asked about it as soon as they started their panda patrol, and seemed genuinely aggrieved on his behalf. He was surprised, being used to her mockery or, more recently, to her indifference.

“Did Anderton show up?”

“No.” A pause to watch a cyclist ahead of them juggle deftly with the change of lights to make a terrifying right-hand turn. Garrett winced in a mixture of admiration and apprehension. “It was only a small competition, really. I don’t expect he even knew it was on.”

She nodded and turned her head to scan the side streets. “And he’s got to think about about his reputation as a media star, I suppose. Can’t afford to waste his valuable time on anything as mundane as the police force.” Her tone was so dry you could have mopped up a pint of milk with it. Doyle couldn’t see her face.

He smiled for the first time in days, but when he spoke there was no lightness in his voice. “A lot of people think he’s just what the force needs. A strong moral -“

She interrupted. “Then they’re dick’eads.” Crisp and sibilant, she had closed the subject. He wasn’t offended and opened a new one.

“Any ideas about your specialist attachments for next year? You hoping for CID?”

“Hadn’t thought about it. You got the River Police, didn’t you?”

“For the first one, yeah.”

“What was it like?”

* * * * *

At the end of the shift he didn’t join the group in the pub, but walked home past the school where the pottery class took place. He was hoping it might not have finished, so he could register and get some idea of what it was going to be like. It was a long detour for him, long enough for him to become aware of the itch of anticipation strengthening just below his ribs. Nice. Good to be looking forward to something.

The school was dark and obviously deserted. He shrugged, slightly deflated but not flattened. At least he know knew that the class finished before night duty started, so he wouldn’t have to leave early next week.

When he got home he was struck by how clean and tidy everything looked - he really had done a thorough job of the housework. _Maybe I should get depressed more often._

The one element of disorder stood out even more because it was not part of his normal clutter: a row of books had fallen over on the bottom shelf, leaning away from the gutted dictionary that contained his gun, which was still upright. He really had collected a lot of those polar books. More than he’d realised. The man in Oxfam had looked surprised when he’d piled them on the counter, and he’d left quickly, in no mood for the questions and discussion which had seemed imminent.

He moved some books from other, tightly-packed shelves, and order was restored. He found _The Choirboys_ again, and read for half an hour before bed. It was definitely not something to read on a churning stomach, but if you were settled it was really very funny. Of course it was exaggerated. You could probably make a week with “B” relief sound like that if you put your mind to it.

The next day, Wednesday, he was sorry to miss the shooting practice in the evening, but not because he wanted to be shooting with the team. _They_ knew he was on lates. _He_ knew he was on lates. But he still felt as if he was chickening out. And he was sure that they would talk about him in his absence, and that they would not be generous. Through the last hours of the shift, phrases bubbled up and burst in his mind as he dissected his own performance at the match and in the pub. Salmon had a lot to say, but the most cutting comments used Tony’s voice. He tried not to listen but it was a quiet shift, and he was out on his own.

However, as the evening got colder the foot patrols headed back to the station and spent the last hour in the canteen, which suited Doyle perfectly. He was more talkative than usual, and led the move to the pub when the panda patrols came back. He invited Garrett, but she smiled and shook her head. She seemed more relaxed than she had for months; maybe next time she’d even join them.

For the rest of the week he got back into the habit of going to the caffs in the morning and the pub at night. He finished _The Choirboys_ , hunted for some more Wambaugh novels and started on those. He felt as if he was marking time before the pottery class started and changed his life. He knew he was being unrealistic, but no matter how often he told himself that, the excitement wouldn’t be extinguished.

* * * * *

The first class didn’t change his life, but it wasn’t a chilling disappointment, and the excitement kept fizzing away, waiting for the next week. He arrived early in order to register and pay his fee, but he decided later that he could just have slipped in and no one would have noticed. _What would it count as - gatecrashing an evening class? Theft probably. Maybe a bit of trespass, but it’s more than that._

He didn’t seem to have missed anything crucial over the past weeks. In fact he was quite relieved not to be lumbered with a squat, coiled pot shaped like a very small laundry basket. He stood on the fringes of the group while the teacher handed out the previous week’s work and talked about firing conditions.

He wondered how long they kept uncollected pots. Till the end of term? Or just for a few weeks? Was he going to lose most of his work when lates made him miss classes? The simplest way to find out would be to ask right now, but he didn’t want to introduce himself by moaning about lates, and by the time he’d realised that he didn’t have to mention lates at all, the lesson proper was starting and they were all taking places around the long bench.

The evening’s project was a pair of slabwork mugs. At first it sounded insultingly trivial, but he soon realised it was a clever choice. The shape of the first mug might be an accident, but you learnt a lot in trying to make the accident happen a second time. He became absorbed in the feel of the clay under his hands and forgot about socialising. Just after eight o’clock he looked at the two mugs side by side, smiled in satisfaction, and wrote his initials on their bases.

The teacher collected all of the mugs and put them to one side for firing later in the week. He called a ten minute break, but most of the class stayed in the studio and made conversation over the schoolwork displayed around the walls. Doyle talked to the woman who’d been sitting to his right. He remembered her name as Carol from the roll-call, and saw surprise and then pleasure when he used it; like most people, she liked to be noticed. The conversation was just starting to broaden out from pottery when the break came to an end.

In the second half, the group dipped their laundry baskets in glaze while Doyle watched and listened. It didn’t take long, and soon the sludgy objects had been stacked by the side of the kiln. The teacher wound up the lesson by showing them some pictures of more sophisticated slabwork, miming the construction with an expression of great concentration. It was encouraging; it said, “you might just be splashing in the shallow end at the moment, but you’re using the same strokes as the people in the deep end”. He closed the book at ten minutes past nine, and five minutes later most of the group was crowded around the bar at “The Sun”.

Doyle bought Carol a white wine and himself a coke and they sat with the rest of the group. He encouraged her to do most of the talking, and discovered that this was her first pottery class, though she’d been to several painting classes over the years, and the previous year had studied watercolours at the same school.

Her job was designing uniforms. This fascinated him, partly because he’d worn a uniform for thirteen years without once imagining that it had been consciously designed, and partly because he was surprised it provided enough work to keep anyone employed full-time.

“Well, the really big organisations don’t re-design very often, so we don’t rely on those. Some of them have their own designers anyway. But you’d be surprised how many companies have uniforms. Most of the time you don’t notice - which shows that we’re doing our job.

“For instance, on Thursday I’m going to Nottingham to talk to Boots the Chemists. And we’ve got a big contract lined up with Midland Bank that should be very interesting. You see, they want us to design a _range_ of skirts and blouses and scarves and so on, so that their staff have some choice and it doesn’t look too formal, but so it doesn’t look a complete mess either.”

Doyle nodded as she talked, listening, but mostly looking. The main impression he got was of roundedness, because he couldn’t see a single straight line about her, except her earrings, which were large red squares. She had dark-brown, shiny hair which waved gently and was cut in a neat bob. Her skin was pale cream and looked as if it would be cool and - somehow - liquid underneath. She was slightly shorter than Garrett, and, while not gauche, had none of the long-limbed poise that usually sent Doyle in pursuit. That needn’t matter though; he’d proved that he was flexible, hadn’t he?

Yes, she was attractive. She reminded him of someone. Even while he was searching his memories he knew that the comparison he’d made was skewed, and when he found the match he nearly laughed. She reminded him of Garrett. That might be because Garrett was the only small woman with dark curly hair he knew well. Garrett certainly gave no impression of roundedness or cool liquidness.

But take Garrett and let out some of the tension that was holding in her bone structure and winding up her curls? Maybe. It wouldn’t be Garrett of course, but if you _could_ do it the similarity might be striking.

At quarter to ten he got up to leave. He wished Carol a good trip to Nottingham, then said goodbye to the group as a whole. On the way to the station he decided that the class had been worth waiting for, and just what he needed.


	16. Heat-Trace - Chapter 14

## Chapter 14

Once back at the station, he took longer than usual to change, since he’d gone to work in civvies, not half-blues, and arrived in the parade room just a few minutes before the start of the shift. They talked about the new “Dirty Harry” film (which about half had seen) until the sergeant and inspector arrived.

The sergeant went through the usual start of shift business. Doyle listened until he got his assignment - car patrol with Woods - and then tuned it out and thought about Carol. He started to pay attention again when he sensed the sergeant was coming to the end, but before they were dismissed, the inspector stepped forward to make an announcement:

“I don’t know how many of you know that Garrett handed in her notice yesterday. So she’s on her last month with the force.”

It seemed that no one but Garrett and the inspector had known. Twenty two heads swivelled round. She looked embarrassed, glanced around at the curious faces, and then settled on a weak smile directed at no one in particular. Doyle tried to catch her eye but she would not cooperate.

* * * * *

“You knew she’d quit?” asked Woods an hour after the pubs had shut and the city had gone to sleep.

Doyle shook his head.

“Still, no great surprise. These academic types, a good whiff of real life and they go running back to their desk jobs. I’ve never figured out why they bother. Have you?”

Doyle shrugged.

“And these girl coppers. Well, they’re useful at times, I suppose. But they’re not real coppers. They’re not what Joe Public wants looking after his streets. How’s a little thing like her going to cope with an angry man, eh? You tell me that.”

“She did OK. Better than a lot of six foot bruisers I’ve seen.”

“Oh. Well, I never really worked with her. But it was obvious from day one she was never going to fit in. There are some people who just don’t want to make the effort. Think they’ve signed on for a different force from the rest of us.”

“You really didn’t like her.” Doyle had only just realised.

Woods shrugged. “She never gave us a chance to. You were the only one she got on with. She treats the rest of us like we were thugs.” His resentment peaked, and when he spoke again he was casual. “We could never figure out what she saw in you. No offence, Ray,” he added hastily, “it’s just ... what made you so different from the rest of us? We couldn’t see it.”

“I tutored her, remember. I guess that broke the ice.”

Woods thought about it. “Maybe.” He paused and turned his head slowly towards Doyle. After a minute’s silence, Doyle glanced at him and saw a suppressed smile.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“What are you smirking about?”

“Oh.” The smile was no longer suppressed. “Just another thing we were always wondering about.”

No one had yet asked him outright. “No, I did _not_ get my leg over. OK? That win you any bets?”

“A couple. I always said you wouldn’t bother, the way Terry described that Alison. You’ve got better taste.”

Doyle smiled crookedly, and said, “There’s nothing happening here. Let’s go back to the canteen.”

* * * * *

He thought Garrett might be there, and she was - dunking malted milks into sweet, black coffee, and paying no attention to the football argument around her. Doyle and Woods took their coffees to her table.

There were many things Doyle wanted to say to her. Most of them would have to wait. “Where are you moving on to? When you leave?”

“I’m going back to computing.”

“What - IBM, that sort of thing?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ve applied for a few things. Got some interviews.”

“So you haven’t got a job lined up?”

“No.”

The other men on the table had halted their conversation in order to eavesdrop, but they soon got bored and started up again, including Woods.

“You staying in London?”

“Hope so. Depends on the job. I’m staying with Cathy in the meantime.”

“That’s your friend in Kennington?”

“Yeah.”

Pause. “She’s never been keen on the force, has she?” He strove to keep his voice even and unremarkable. He knew perfectly well that the canteen was not the place to ask that question, and when he’d sat down he’d intended to keep things light. But a sudden anger had flattened his intentions.

Garrett blinked, turned to examine a tray stand on the other side of the room, and then turned to look at him again, propping her chin on her hand. She raised her eyebrows slightly and said, “I don’t think she has strong opinions either way. I’ll ask her, if you’re interested.”

“Why not? We always like to keep in touch with public opinion. Another coffee?” He stood up.

“No, thanks.”

“More coffee, anyone?”

* * * * *

Winter night shifts ended when it was still dark, which usually made it easy to sleep afterwards - easier than in summer, anyway. But that Wednesday morning Doyle lay wide awake in bed, buzzing with caffeine and anger. At first he wasn’t sure why he was so angry, then he worked it out and it got worse.

_I really put myself out to make her feel at home in the force. More than any probationer I’ve ever had. I shouldn’t have bloody bothered. Ungrateful bitch._

_Woods is right. She just wouldn’t make the effort to fit in. Totally anti-social. Surprised she’s got any friends at all if she treats everyone the way she treated me and the force. Not a word. One day eating my food, bending my ear. The next - it’s as if I don’t exist._

_I was bloody patient with her too. All that drama at the march. Anyone else would have brought her down to earth with a bang. “Signed up with a different force from the rest of us.” Yeah. God, she had it easy with me. And what does she do?_

_She was practically spying on me. Must have been, to have decided ... And I just let her get away with it. Shrugged it off. Even joked about her being a detective. Christ, I was soft in those days. I should have ..._ He rolled over abruptly onto his stomach.

In the end he gave up telling Garrett what he thought of her and gave up trying to sleep. He fetched his latest Wambaugh novel (“The New Centurions”), and a large glass of orange juice, and sat up in bed reading. At about 10 am his eyelids started to droop, and he fell asleep almost without realising it.

* * * * *

He went to shooting practice on Wednesday night, and discovered that he was still wading through his bad patch. After a talk with Tony he decided to drop out of the team for a while. He was not kicked out - the team assured him that he was better than most even when in a slump - and Tony encouraged him to attend practice any time he felt like it.

It was a graceful escape for his ego. He convinced himself he wasn’t running away, and even if he was, sometimes that was the best thing to do. Sometimes exercise just aggravated an injury and rest was the only cure. That had always been the case with his previous slumps: they came and went of their own accord and didn’t respond to analysis or treatment.

“Well, I’ve seen you through two or three of these ... cycles,” said Tony, “and I don’t understand them any more than you do. I mean, it’s not as if you’re one of those moody sods - not from what I’ve seen of you anyway.”

He raised his eyebrows in question at Doyle, who shrugged and then shook his head.

“I wonder if it isn’t just your system telling you to take it easy. It takes a lot out of you, working at the sort of level that you do. Why should you be able to keep it up forever?” He broke off, grinned, and said, “There’s a medical term for that, isn’t there?”

Doyle was momentarily puzzled, then caught on. “I expect so, though I don’t know many blokes who’d want to be cured of it. So you don’t mind if I drop out for a few months?”

“Well, it’s always good to see you, but ... this is a sport, remember, and you’re not some kid who has a couple of lessons and gives up as soon as it gets hard. I mean, you’ve put the initial effort in - the learning curve or whatever it is they call it these days - you’re more than over that. So I’m not going to push you. It’s up to you to decide whether you’re having fun or not.”

“I’ll give it -“ He thought. “- two months. Come back in January. That should be long enough. And I might be in before. You never know.”

That night Doyle was assigned to a car with Woods again. He was less and less sure he liked him. There was just too much self-confidence. Of course, a healthy dose of it was essential for a copper, and no one had ever accused Doyle of being shy, but with Woods a lot of it seemed to come from ignoring other people, or treating every encounter as a confrontation.

 _Would you describe him as aggressive?_ Maybe not as bad as that. He always seemed to be smiling and friendly - he was one of the social leaders at the station - but there was a breeziness that was starting to seem almost ruthless. _Could you be friends with him? Could you really trust him?_

Now Doyle was starting to remember and notice other details for his new picture of the man.

Woods was one of the people who always passed too close on the corridor in the station. Not bumping into you but ... just not the right amount of distance, so it felt like a threat even though nothing happened.

It probably wasn’t deliberate. He probably just had different ideas about what was a comfortable gap. Hadn’t he heard somewhere that “personal space” depended a lot on culture? Something Garrett had been reading maybe. So obviously not everyone worked with the same rules. But most people in the station did. Most people he’d ever met did. And the ones who didn’t? Now he thought about it they’d always been people he’d hadn’t got on with, had found too cocky. A petty detail, yes, but why shouldn’t it show something about the man’s attitude to other people?

His appearance was more proof of a slippery, selfish determination. Not repulsive, though certainly not attractive to Doyle. He was shorter than Doyle, one of the shortest men on the relief, and his compact body seemed bursting with energy. His skin was pink and taut, but gave an impression of roughness, not healthy smoothness; Doyle thought at first it was stubble, but close inspection showed that it wasn’t.

The impression was still there though, an impression of hairiness. Doyle pondered this over the course of the shift, and the answer came to him during their second visit to the canteen, when Woods took off his helmet to reveal his straight black hair, cut short, and the same length all over. Woods reminded him of a rat, a well-nourished, successful rat. Those bright black eyes should be entirely framed in hair. No wonder it was difficult to focus on his skin; it shouldn’t be visible at all.

* * * * *

For the second morning running Doyle lay in bed, stiff with tension after a peaceful night-shift. Was he being too hard on Woods - being ridiculous even? Probably. He was just in a general-purpose shitty mood what with Garrett and the shooting. So the boy was full of himself. He wasn’t the only one of the relief, or the worst. And what had he ever done or said that was so bad? Nothing. Friendly bloke. Gave good parties.

But he would make a good rat. A king rat.

* * * * *

It was raining when Doyle got up on Thursday afternoon, and dark. _Would be nice to see some daylight._ It was still raining at the beginning of the shift. His eyebrows twitched when he heard his assignment: car patrol with Garrett.

When the last tube was half an hour gone, Doyle decided to make a tour of the division - without consulting or informing Garrett - and left their beat. It looked as if he was driving completely at random, but he was actually following one of his favourite routes for the area car. He was sure it was the perfect search pattern for the division, though he’d never tried to convince anyone else. What was he searching for? Work? The right opening with Garrett? The streets were quiet. His mind was empty.

They passed the area car in the southern end of the district, and he raised a hand to MacKenzie and Stone. Had MacKenzie taught Stone his route? More than likely. Stone could learn a lot from him. Shame they never had a chance to talk.

Beside him Garrett was leaning back, arms folded. She seemed to be watching the wind-screen wipers. When they finally got back to their beat she said, “Why don’t we go in? We’re long due for a tea break.”

“You want a tea?”

“Coffee, actually.”

He nodded, but turned in the opposite direction to the station and drove towards the centre of town. Some minutes later he pulled up outside an all-night caff.

“Coffee, you said?”

“Yeah.”

When he came back he handed her two plastic cups and some biscuits, and drove off again, heading back to the division.

* * * * *

“You gone off the canteen?”

“No.” He could sense that she was looking at him, but he didn’t glance round. After long seconds she went back to her sprawl.

In the middle of the beat was a small industrial estate. Doyle parked in one of the poorly-lit streets. When he’d turned off the engine he reached over for his tea.

“We waiting for burglars or something?”

“No. We’re having a tea break.”

“Ah. Useful to know.”

The rain seemed heavier than before. They were surrounded by the sound of it. The streams of water glistened on the windows and you had to concentrate to focus on anything outside the car. Doyle gave up trying.

They could have been in the middle of the ocean. For some reason Doyle thought of Bodie, of being held by Bodie. He could feel the arms banded around his chest, smell his skin and hair. His stomach clenched, and he immersed his nose in the chalky smell of tea, and closed his eyes.

“Have you taken a vow of silence or something, Ray?”

His head jerked round. He’d forgotten he wasn’t alone in the car. They stared at one another while he made sense of what she’d said.

“Sometimes I don’t feel like talking,” he said, slowly and precisely. “You should understand that. You obviously didn’t feel like talking to me about resigning.”

“You’re right. I didn’t. Why, what would you have said?”

What _would_ he have said? “I’d have asked why. I’d’ve -“

“It should be obvious why.”

He frowned, and said slowly, “Well, it’s a tough job, and‑“

“Oh, Ray! The job’s not so tough. It’s the force that’s full of gristle.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that the public are a doddle. All it takes to deal with them is a dedication to common sense and a cool temper. But to deal with other coppers you need -“ She paused. “You need to be able to switch off your brain. You need to be able to think - or at least talk - like someone who has wet dreams about punchups and throwing up a curry after a night out with the lads. Like someone who thinks that the job can _only_ be done by a six-foot hard-drinking bruiser working with other six-foot hard-drinking bruisers. Like someone who hasn’t had a thought about women or blacks or ... hippies that isn’t boiling with hate and contempt.”

A short pause for breathing. “Like someone who hasn’t had a thought. Well, I’ve had quite a few thoughts. I like the job. It’s the most important job there is. Making people feel safe. I’d like to carry on and give it all my time and energy and ideas. And I’ve got some good ideas. I think the force needs me. But it doesn’t bloody deserve me.”

A long sigh. “And that’s why I’m leaving. You did ask.”

“It’s not as bad as that, surely.”

“It’s worse. I was trying to spare your delicate male feelings. There are a lot of charmless chauvinist dickheads in the computer industry, but they usually just show it by assuming that everyone in the world is male and acting surprised when you point out that this isn’t true. The worst of them would never say - in a crowded canteen - that ... um ... _“No girl will ever write decent code as long as she’s got a hole between her legs”_. Or maybe you think that’s polite conversation? I’ve certainly never noticed you leaping up to point out to Medland the errors in his argument.”

“Neither do you.”

“True. I try never to rise to a taunt. I just-“

Their radios burst into life, ordering them to a domestic disturbance about a mile away. They looked at one another.

“Shall we take it?” asked Garrett.

Doyle made a face. “See if the area car picks it up. I’m not in the mood for some stupid lock-out.”

They listened tensely as the reserve tried them again, and then gave up and raised the area car. They relaxed and grinned, co-conspirators.

“I hope they never make these things one hundred percent reliable,” Doyle said, tapping his radio.

Garrett nodded. “Selective deafness.”

They finished their drinks.

* * * * *

“I’m not a six-foot hard-drinking bruiser,” said Doyle, quietly but firmly. “I’m not ... what was it? ... boiling with hate for women and blacks and hippies.”

“I know. I don’t even think the canteen cowboys are, not really. On the streets they behave ... perfectly well, most of them. There aren’t many sociopaths on the relief. But the image ...” She shook her head slowly. “They put so much _effort_ into the image. They’re scared, I think. I don’t really know why. I suppose ... they see the job as a tide of chaos, and they have to make themselves hard and rigid in order to contain it.”

She was staring straight ahead at the windscreen, obviously thinking aloud. “And they have to stand together, and they have to rise to any challenge. And they can’t admit to differences. Or doubts. And they’re _so_ threatened by change. And they don’t even know why they’re the way they are.

“It’s sad. Get them on their own, and they’re fine. Young lads who’ll admit that they threw up the first time they saw a corpse, and that they get depressed when their girlfriend’s angry with them. Normal human beings, with a normal touch of chaos. But in the canteen ... Suddenly they’ve got a photo album full of road accidents, and they haven’t got a girlfriend - there’s just some _slag_ they _put it to_.”

She breathed out heavily, dropped her head, and blinked rapidly several times. When she spoke again her voice was very quiet. “It’s sad. I don’t think they even know that they’re ...” She sighed again. “... lying about who they are half the time. Ignoring what they really know about themselves and other people.”

Doyle said nothing. He was no longer angry with her, or not very. Her pain was too obvious. He wondered why he hadn’t seen it before. He’d always thought that she floated above the needling, sublimely confident that it didn’t apply to her. And she really did want to do the job - something else he hadn’t seen before. Cruel, to want something and then learn that you could never have it.

There was silence in the car. Outside, there was still the rain. Garrett raised her head suddenly, and tore open the pack of chocolate digestives that Doyle had bought. She held it out, and Doyle took one.

“Why didn’t you tell me? That you were that fed up,” he asked.

She didn’t reply for several seconds. “I thought I had.”

He opened his eyes wide. “I thought you were just letting off steam.”

“Maybe I was. It all just -“ She brought her hands together forcefully in a swooping gesture. “- rushed in all at once, and I decided there was no point in going on. When I make my mind up I don’t hang around.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I. Still, at least I tried it. Better than going straight to IBM, and never trying to find out. Probably.”

He nodded and leaned forward to turn the key in the ignition. They watched the windscreen wipers for a minute or two, then Garrett said, “Shall we get back to work?”

“Might as well.”

After two minor calls and their meal break they were back in the side-street listening to the rain ease and finally stop.

“Do you really think the force is ...”

“Fucked? Depends on whether you’re looking at it from the inside or the outside, and on who you are. If you’re on the inside, and you’re not a Medland-clone, definitely. If you’re on the outside and you’re ... respectable, it probably seems OK. You wouldn’t want a copper for a friend, of course, because they’re hard and forbidding and not all that bright. If you’re on the outside and you’re not respectable - if you’ve got a hint of chaos about you, for whatever reason - then it’s a disaster. I think there’s going to be a real disaster if the force doesn’t learn how to loosen up.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that there are a lot of people out there who really don’t trust the police. At all. Not criminals, just ordinary people who feel that the force is not _their_ police force. The force should be _trying_ to liberalise, _trying_ to communicate, and it’s not. There are some angry people out there. All it will take is a long hot summer. I’ll be keeping an eye on the long-range weather forecast.”

He frowned at her, not recognising what she was describing. “Are you sure you’re not exaggerating?”

She shrugged. “I admit I’m fed up with the force at the moment, but I’m not the only one.”

A long pause while Doyle wondered if there was any point in arguing. “We’ll see.”

“Yeah.”

They sat in silence. Their radios relayed calls and backchat, but none of it was for them.

Doyle saw a cat appear over a wall, then watched it scoot over the road and disappear over a fence. It was less than a shadow - visible only because it moved. He didn’t point it out to Garrett. He didn’t look at her.

He thought about telling her that he would miss her. He would. She wasn’t always easy company, not in the way that Woods and the rest of the lads were, but the relief would be monotonous without her. He opened his mouth, and then shut it again. He simply couldn’t imagine himself saying it.

He didn’t lie awake that morning. He felt sad, but it made him tired, not agitated. He wasn’t sure why he was sad. Not because she was leaving - they were barely friends these days. Maybe it was just a feeling of sympathy because she’d been so unhappy.

* * * * *

The weekend went by almost without Doyle noticing. It was lively enough, but with no surprises. He spent Sunday night on a beat with Garrett again, but they didn’t refer to her resignation. It might been as if they’d never talked about it, except that the long tension between them had eased. Doyle felt that they understood each other better now.

Weekly leave felt long overdue. For a week of quiet nights it had taken a lot out of him. He’d barely had time even to work on his hopes about Carol since start of shift on Tuesday. When he woke up on Monday afternoon he decided to put work out of his mind and concentrate on enjoying himself.

Woods had arranged a trip to a club on Tuesday night. Doyle could probably have caught up with them after pottery but he’d said he wasn’t interested. It wasn’t that he was planning on spending the night with Carol (though he hadn’t ruled it out). He just needed a rest from his colleagues. Woods still reminded him of a rat.

Carol greeted him when he walked into the studio and he took a stool next to her. He asked her about the trip to Nottingham, and listened seriously as she replied.

“Is it a lot different from what you did for them five years ago?” he asked, partly because he was interested, and partly to show he remembered what she’d said a week ago in the pub.

She was wearing the same red earrings, and a brushed-cotton shirt in royal blue, open at the neck so he could see a black T-shirt underneath. She seemed to favour simple, primary colours, which suited her and gave an impression of great confidence.

He was struck again by how fine her skin was, moulded in neat curves on her plump face. It made him imagine the curve of her breasts, the weight and smoothness of them in his hands. Although the material of the blue shirt was too thick and stiff to outline their shape for him, he was sure they were full, and he watched for clues whenever she walked around the studio.

At the end of the class he said, “Are you coming to the pub?”

She shook her head. “I’d like to, but I’m expecting a call from a friend in the States, and I have to get back.” She smiled widely. “It’s about arrangements for Christmas.”

“Oh, yes.” She’d talked a lot about spending Christmas in California, and was obviously excited about it. She hadn’t said much about the friend, though, not even a name. He hoped it wasn’t a boyfriend. “Well, see you next week.”

He went to the pub anyway and tried his charm on other members of the class. There was no one who interested him as much as Carol, but it didn’t hurt to make yourself pleasant. He listened intelligently for an hour and then went home.

He really hoped Carol didn’t have a boyfriend, in California or anywhere else. A boyfriend would be an obstacle to him getting what he wanted. Not an impossible obstacle - he was confident in his own powers of attraction and persuasion - but he could do without any scenes. He had enough to worry about just getting his sex drive up and running again.

Nah, it was going to be fine. Another week or so and he’d make a move. In the meantime ... He lay back on his bed and, after some moments of wriggling, eased his jeans down his thighs, and then closed his eyes and started thinking about unbuttoning that blue shirt. She wouldn’t be wearing a bra, of course.

* * * * *

At the next class, Carol arrived late and had to take a seat on the other side of the room. The weather had got colder and she was wearing a baggy jumper in a red that matched the earrings. Doyle kept glancing across at her, and was not pleased to see her chatting with the man to her right, who looked to him like a smaller, older version of Woods.

At the break he headed over without any delay.

“Did your friend ‘phone OK the other night?”

She nodded. “It’s all sorted out. I’m flying on the 20th.”

He asked her more about what she had planned, and whether she’d visited the States before. It emerged that the friend was female, and he smirked to himself. He wondered vaguely when she’d get round to asking what _he_ had planned for Christmas. Any sign of interest would be nice. He couldn’t remember her asking him anything, except about his experience of evening classes.

As the break ended he said, “Will you be coming to the pub tonight?” She would be.

* * * * *

“I don’t really know what to do with these things,” he said as they walked to the pub. He was carrying his two mugs, now glazed a pleasant sea-green.

“Drink out of them.”

“No, I meant - We’re going to look a right crowd, taking up half the pub with our pots. I should have brought a bag. I’d just forgotten about them.”

She shrugged out of her backpack and held it open. “Hide them in here if you like.”

He placed them carefully inside. “Thanks. I thought only Scandinavian teenagers were allowed to wear those little rucksacks.”

She laughed. “Well, I got it in Denmark last year. I guess they must have forgotten to check my passport. I live in fear of being caught by the Backpack Police. But it’s better than worrying about being mugged.”

“Eh?”

“Well, it’s difficult to snatch if I’m wearing it properly. Makes them think twice, I hope.”

“You worry about being mugged, do you?”

“I don’t know anyone who doesn’t. Except you, by the sound of it.”

He shrugged. He’d never thought about it, except as something to look forward to. An easy arrest, and a good story. “Never thought about it.”

“Lucky you.”

* * * * *

“Dry white wine?” he asked when they were inside.

“Thanks.”

They couldn’t get a seat so stood around a pillar in the middle of the room.

“You travel a lot, do you?”

“Not really.”

“But - the States? Denmark? Sounds a lot to me.”

She considered. “I get away a couple of times a year, I suppose. But it’s mostly to visit friends these days. I’m no explorer. I haven’t got the energy for Interrailing any more.”

“What’s Interrailing?”

“Ah -“ She looked surprised. “It’s a month’s unlimited travel on European railways. I did it a couple of summers at college. It’s a great way to lose friends, if you ask me.”

“How much does it cost?”

“I think it’s about a hundred pounds now.”

“That’s cheap!” He couldn’t get a month off, of course, but it was good value even for a fortnight. And he’d have to get a passport. He studied the ceiling, obviously planning.

“You’re interested?”

“Yeah.” He smiled at her, half-embarrassed. “I’ve never been abroad, not since I was three or something.” He didn’t count North Africa; that hadn’t been his doing, and it wasn’t part of his real life. Most of the time he didn’t believe it had happened.

“Um. You have to be 26 or less. It’s for students, really.”

“Oh.” He slumped against the pillar, and took several large swallows of beer.

“How come you haven’t been abroad since you were three?”

“Dunno. Just ... happy here.” He’d had this sort of conversation with Ann. She’d seemed to find it incredible (and, initially, exotic) that he hadn’t spent two months in Florence working on his Italian.

“The English Tourist Board should hear about you.”

“Maybe I should apply.” He finished his pint. “Another glass?”

“It’s my round. Same again? Directors, isn’t it?”

* * * * *

“Are you interested in that thing at the V&A?” she asked. Their teacher had recommended an exhibition of modern pottery.

“Yeah. Do you fancy going?” This was the opening he’d been planning on himself. Very promising.

She nodded. “How about this weekend? Saturday afternoon, maybe?”

He grimaced. “I’m working all weekend. I can make the weekend after.”

“OK. Good. We’ll sort it out next week, then.”

A shake of the head. “Not going to be here next week.”

“Out of town?”

“No. Working again.”

“OK.” She delved in her backpack for her diary. As she was straightening up, she said, “What _is_ your work? You never said.”

“I’m a police constable.”

She stared, and swallowed. After a pause: “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“Most of us look almost human out of uniform, you know,” he said lightly.

“Yes, of course. I mean, I didn’t mean -“ She was truly flustered.

Doyle started to look puzzled. _Is she wanted for something?_ He searched his memory, but it didn’t seem likely.

“Anyway, about the V&A. What do you want to do?” he said.

“Oh. Um. Why don’t you give me your phone number, and I’ll call you nearer the time.”

“OK.” He told her the number and watched her write it in her diary in the space for that Saturday. “I’m on a week of earlies at the moment, but I switch to a week of lates - that’s two till ten - from Friday, and then I’m on nights. It’s best to call in the mornings if you’re not sure.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“I’m used to it. I don’t think in terms of weekends any more. But I know it’s confusing from the outside.”

“How long have you been ... _inside_?” She sounded subdued and he sensed she was asking just to be polite. He strove to keep up their earlier enthusiasm and resume the flirtation.

“Coming up for fourteen years now.”

“Oh. That sounds like a long time. Did you join straight from school?”

It was like an interview. Doyle couldn’t understand it. Alison hadn’t been like this, or Ann. They didn’t ignore the job - you couldn’t - but they didn’t behave as if he was something of uncertain temper in a zoo. Maybe he shouldn’t have told her. But what was he supposed to do?

He soon changed the subject - to TV commercials for toys - and she relaxed slightly, but it was still uncomfortable. They drank quickly to fill in the silences. When she’d finished her wine he offered her another, but she glanced at her watch, said she ought to be getting home, and was gone.

Doyle glanced around the pub. The other people from the class had found a group of seats, and were quite settled. The teacher was in the middle, conducting most of the conversation with his hands. They hadn’t noticed Carol leave, and Doyle couldn’t face breaking in. He threw the last of his pint down his throat, and put the glass on the bar on his way to the Gent’s.

He was half-way home when he realised that Carol still had his mugs. Maybe she’d call and arrange to drop them round. And maybe she wouldn’t.

* * * * *

The next morning he was on foot patrol on his own. There was little happening and he strayed into the neighbouring beat, where he soon caught sight of Garrett and fell into step with her.

“How’s it going?”

“Counting the days.”

 _I’ll miss you._ He didn’t say it. Why were women so bloody complicated? All sort of reactions you didn’t expect. Thoughts you couldn’t follow.

“You know you were talking about the way civilians feel about the force?”

“Mmm?”

“Why are you so sure? I mean, this lot don’t seem bothered by us.” He gestured at the purposeful commuters.

She didn’t reply immediately. He scanned the streets while he waited.

“Have you got many civilian friends, Ray? And I don’t count Bodie.”

“Of course I have.”

“Really?” She looked surprised. “I mean, not just people who’ll buy you a pint if you bump into them in the pub. I mean people who’ll ‘phone you up and invite you round for a meal.”

“Well ... Not so many, I suppose.” Carol was the only civilian in London who had his phone number. There was Alison in Somerset, and the Arnolds in Derby and ... No. Not so many.

“Well, I’ve still got a lot from school and university. I told you about that pair in Bristol. They’re fairly typical. But I _really_ notice it when they introduce me to _their_ new friends. Honestly, you’d think I’d sprouted fangs.” She held up her hands in the shape of a cross, the classic gesture of the celluloid vampire hunter.

“And these aren’t ... anarchists or anything, just graduates dreaming about a mortgage in Twickenham. They don’t give me hassle - tell me I’m a running dog of fascism or anything like that. They just smile fixedly and edge to the other side of the room. Frankly, I started to ... well ... _lie_ , and say I _was_ in computing. They’d be bored, but they’d talk to me.

“Anyway, I soon worked out that a lot of my ... um ... ‘peer group’ didn’t trust the force. And then I started reading around newspapers and magazines. Again, nothing particularly radical. I didn’t believe everything I read. I didn’t agree with half of it. But that doesn’t affect my point. There is a _lot_ of anger out there. A lot of people who _insist_ on believing the worst about the force. It doesn’t matter if they’re right, they’re going to act on how they _feel_. And then you read the ‘Police Review’ and it’s hard to believe you’re in the same country.

“There’s trouble coming. I’m sure of it.” Pause. “Does that answer your question?”

“Yup. Why don’t you write to ‘Police Review’ yourself? Say what you’re just told me. Might get people thinking.”

She looked thoughtful. “I could, I suppose. I’d be well away before it came out.”

“Coward,” he teased.

“Do you blame me?” she said in mock-outrage.

“Not a bit. Why do you think you got such bad reactions from your friends?”

“Not sure. Guilt, maybe. Everyone’s got something they want to hide. Otherwise ... angry? Thinking I’m suddenly setting myself up as better than them. Well, morally, that is. And these are the people who’ve known me for four years or more. People I’ve met since joining? Well, there’s all that, but they think I’m some sort of idiot too. Not really a person, just a uniform with some meat in it.” She smiled crookedly. “It’s not always been that bad, but often enough. And then there are some people - men, really - whose eyes light up, and they start asking you about the cells and everything. But that’s pretty creepy. I’d rather be ignored.

“Anyway,” she sighed, “there are no neutral reactions. In my experience. Maybe it’s different for a bloke.”

He shrugged and said nothing.

* * * * *

Over the next fortnight he told himself that he’d been mistaken about Carol’s change of attitude. She’d been pre-occupied, that was all. Maybe a bit taken aback. He studied himself in the wardrobe mirror, hands thrust in the pockets of his jeans, head on one side, appraising. Probably not everyone’s idea of a cop. Give her a week or two to get used to it.

The Saturday suggested for the museum visit came and went without a call from her. Doyle went on the Monday afternoon and tried to be interested, but apart from one or two he would have paid maybe fifty quid for, he couldn’t see what the fuss was about. It would have been worth the visit if it had got him further with Carol, but on its own ... After skimming the exhibition, he wandered off around the rest of the museum but he soon got impatient with the cases full of meaningless objects, and ended up in the cafe, blowing patterns in the froth on his cappuccino.

On his way to the school the next evening he wondered if he should mention the exhibition. What would be the point, except to get angry with her because she hadn’t phoned? He was angry, but a scene wouldn’t do him any good. Maybe she’d be apologetic, and then he’d tell her about it, say she hadn’t missed much.

She was already there when he arrived, with an empty seat beside her. He sat down, and knew from the polite smile that there would be no apologies and no suggestions for a different date.

“I’ve brought your mugs. You forgot them last time.” She put them on the table in front of him.

“Thanks.”

They talked during the class, but with no animation. Doyle gave the pub a miss and went back to his flat to dump the mugs and a lumpen vase and change.

Could he have salvaged anything if he’d persisted, tried to regain the old momentum? Probably not. She’d obviously made her mind up. Why should he humiliate himself? It wasn’t worth the effort, not for some slight chance of getting into her bed. Not even for a good chance. He shouldn’t forget what this was all about. It was about going over four months without regular sex.

* * * * *

As he undressed on Wednesday morning after his shift, he watched himself again in the wardrobe mirror. As far as he could see, it was the same body he used to have so much success with.

OK so Carol had some hang-up about the force - this wasn’t just about Carol. In the old days he wouldn’t have wasted a second agonising over a rejection, not when there were so many others saying “Yes”. When had he lost it?

He sucked the middle finger of his right hand into his mouth, circled it with his tongue, and stepped closer to the mirror as he rubbed the wet finger over his left nipple. His cock filled slightly. He slid his hand over so that the peak of flesh nudged the centre of his palm, and then he was still.

 _How horny am I? Really?_ He frowned, thinking. _No wet dreams, or hardly any. No glazed eyes and fantasies in the depths of the night shift. Mike and I used to give points to every bird who went past. I’d do it even when he wasn’t there - tell him about the best in the pub later. I don’t even turn my head these days._

He looked deep into his own eyes. _You’re not really interested at all, are you? So why all this fuss?_ He swallowed. _You think you ought to be. You want to get back to normal, but you’re not really trying._

Abruptly, he closed the wardrobe door, then drew the curtains shut, and got into bed. The sheets were cold. As he lay on his back, the material seemed to press on his still-swollen nipples and cock in a deliberate, icy caress. He turned onto his side.

 _So, should I just forget about it for a while? Not try at all?_ The thought made him uneasy. He turned onto his back again. The sheets were no longer so cold. _I’m a man who needs sex. I’m not used to going without._ He felt himself tense up, but he didn’t know why. He rubbed his stomach with the flat of his hand, concentrating on relaxing.

 _I’m confused. Obviously. But why? It’s just sex. It’s simple._ And then there was a new wave of tension as he heard Bodie’s voice telling him the same thing, over a year before.

He exhaled sharply. _Sex with Bodie simple? Since when?_ Eyes closed tight, he rolled his head backwards and forwards on the pillow, trying to prevent the crowding images from coming into focus. _It hurts to think about him. It still hurts._

After a few seconds more he sat up suddenly, and hunched over, rubbing his forehead hard with his knuckles. He was breathing heavily. When there was no change after more than a minute, he got out of bed and went to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. The water was very cold, so cold it hurt his hands as he cupped them under the tap. He wrapped them in the towel and rubbed until the ache faded. His breathing was back to normal.

The fridge held nothing tempting. He didn’t want a coffee. He made his way back to bed with a small scotch and slumped against the headboard. The scotch burnt his throat and he put it aside after a couple of sips.

_Am I frightened of sex? Is that it? Has he put me off for good?_

He frowned deeply and shook his head. “That’s not fair.”

 _No, but it might be true._ He thought about his time with Bodie, skimming over the memories without settling on any one. The feeling he brought back had no fear in it. _Sadness. Loss._ And arousal. His nerves told him a cock was throbbing against his palm - brushing gently across his face - pushing between his buttocks. His arse was slippery with lubricant.

He shook himself violently, rubbed his hands over his face.

“All right,” he muttered. “You’ve made your point.” He settled back, slowing his breathing. _Not frightened. Not of sex. But it still hurts._

 _Maybe that’s what I’m frightened of. More pain. Holding back in case I meet another Bodie._ He pursed his lips, considering. _But I’m not looking to fall in love. I never have. I just want ... some contact. For God’s sake, I’m not going to stay celibate for the rest of my life. If I’m going to get back to normal sometime, what am I waiting for?_ He couldn’t imagine. He lay down again and turned on his side, away from the window, and finally he slept. When he woke, the question was still unanswered.

* * * * *

He went into town in the afternoon and spent an hour in Tottenham Court Road looking for a computer game for Garrett. That night would be her last on the force. There was no leaving-do organised and she would be clearing out of the section house the next day. Doyle had thought about it nearly as much as he’d thought about his sex life, and had finally decided to get her a present. So, he’d look and feel a prat giving it to her, but ... There should be some acknowledgement. It wasn’t right that she should just slip away unnoticed.

He wrapped the present - the plastic bag just wouldn’t do - but he decided against a card. What could he have said in it?

He met Garrett and some of the relief in the pub an hour before the start of shift. Numbers were down because of a wave of flu and because of Garrett’s anti-social reputation. Woods was there. _Never known him keep away from the pub._

Doyle bought a modest round and eased himself into the group around Garrett. As usual, Woods was doing most of the talking:

“So you will be coming to the Christmas bash? Social event of the year, you know. Nigel Dempster and that lot - always angling for an invite.”

“Piss-up of the year, you mean,” she said, smiling. “OK. When and where?”

“Well, it’s the basement of the section house on the 20th. That’s the Saturday, right?”

She nodded, still smiling. “Umm. Good choice. I’ve always thought it was a very glamorous basement.” Doyle grinned into his orange juice.

“Time’s not set yet, but if you give us your number ...”

“Well, it’s in my file at the station, but ...” Doyle had fished out a pen from inside his jacket, and was fumbling in his wallet for a spare piece of paper. She shrugged, and gave him Cathy’s phone number.

* * * * *

As the group ambled to the station through the drizzle, Doyle fell into step with Garrett.

“Do you think you will come to the party?”

“No.”

“Oh, you sounded as if you -“

“Ritual exchange, Ray,” she said, almost impatiently.

 _What did that mean?_ They walked on in silence. Doyle’s hand was cupped round the edges of the small box in his pocket. He’d planned to give it to her now but ... she made it so difficult to be nice to her. Surely she knew that he wasn’t one of those six-foot bruisers. She’d never actually _said_ that, though. And she’d said a lot. _I deserve some thanks for listening to her ... defending her ... feeding her. Not this ... idiot-treatment._

They were near the station.

“Well, Ruth, if I don’t get a chance to see you during the shift ...” He shrugged. “Good luck.”

She stopped on the steps, and turned to look up at him, smiling warmly. “Thanks, Ray.” She rested a hand briefly on the arm of his leather jacket. That arm tensed as he made to draw her present from the pocket, but she had turned away and was heading for the women’s locker rooms. He breathed out heavily, and then followed the rest of the men.

He saw her in the canteen a couple of times during the shift, but was never alone with her again. He didn’t see her leave at the end of the shift.


	17. Heat-Trace - Chapter 15

## Chapter 15

It felt as if it was going to be a very long weekly leave. The weather was grey and clammy, and it seemed to him that it had been a long time since he’d seen daylight, let alone sunlight. He went to bed in the dark at the end of the shift, and it was nearly dark again when he woke on Thursday afternoon.

He woke depressed, and immediately knew why, and immediately knew what he should do about it. But instead of getting up and having a brisk shower, he turned over and buried his face in the pillow. Yes, he would get up, but not now.

 _Four bloody days to get through. I should get some sort of bonus payment for weekly leaves like this._ He bashed his fist to dent the pillow and increase his air supply. _I know it’s just the frame of mind I’m in at the moment, but I feel as if my life’s been put in a sack and jumped on by a squad of bouncers. I could do with something going right for me. Not a record pools win, just ... a surprise Christmas present._

_The worst thing is ... having to make up every day as I go along. Like today. Like the next four days. Nothing ... planned. No ... projects. Be nice to have a tour leader for days like this. Hand me my schedule for Thursday. Push me out of bed. Book all the tickets and drag me onto the right tube train with enough spending money for an ice-cream in the interval and a pint afterwards._

He squirmed onto his back, his arm over his eyes, and sighed. _Christ, I really am low. Pathetic. All this time in uniform you’d think I’d be used to waking up to a blank schedule. No idea what beat I’ll be on, who I’ll be working with, what sort of mess I’ll have to clean up. I liked it._ His eyes snapped open. “I _still_ like it.” He nodded once, then sighed again and crossed his arms over his chest, on top of the covers.

 _And off-duty ... just the same. See what turns up. Try something. Give it up. People come. People go. It’s always been enough. Happy as a sandboy as long as each week gives me a few good results, a few good stories, and a chance to tell them in a good pub._ He smiled crookedly. _And happier still if it gives me a chase. Or two. Though I’m not as bad as MacKenzie. He’d take the siren to bed with him if he could._ The smile continued, and softened. His mood had improved, but he was still thoughtful.

 _Maybe these depressions aren’t just about the awkward women in my life, or fucking up at the tournament. Maybe it_ is _the beat. I do still like it, but -_ He grimaced _\- let’s face it, no one would bounce back from ... all that in just four months. Yeah, so I’m wobbling a bit trying to find that ... bloody balance. And the beat gives as much support as a ... as one of those swimming turtles in “Frogger”. It’s easier in the car. My own partner. My own car. The best calls. Not so much bloody social work. God. Roll on, January the fifteenth._

With that he threw back the covers, and leapt out to assault what was left of the day. Under the shower he congratulated himself on his powers of self-analysis. _I’ve only been feeling this lousy since I started this last stint on the beat. Yeah. I was in the car when it all ended, and for the first couple of months. No picnic, but I was getting it together. With another three months in the car? Middle of April?_ He shook his head. _Can’t believe it’ll take me longer than that. By then I’ll be raring to mould the next batch of clay from Hendon._

_* * * * *_

The improved frame-of-mind continued over the weekend and into the early-shift following. He went to the pottery class on Tuesday, with no great expectation of enjoyment, but determined that he wasn’t going to be kept away by Carol’s hang-ups, which were her problem, not his.

He didn’t sit next to her, though they nodded in greeting when he entered the room. He concentrated on the lesson more than usual, talking to his neighbours when necessary, but feeling no compulsion to make them like him.

The project for the week was a jar - the first thing they’d made with a lid. Doyle decided to make something to match the mugs, which had straight sides which sloped outwards, like the top of an ice-cream cone. He was pleased with the mugs, and had been using them. He made a shallow dish with the same sloping sides, and a flat lid with a little conical knob in the middle as a handle. The teacher, Brian, admired it, and suggested cutting a space for a spoon in the edge of the lid. Doyle thought about it, and then shook his head; it was just right the way it was.

In the second half, they glazed their candle-sticks from the week before. It didn’t take long, and instead of winding-up the class with a look at more-advanced work, Brian said, “As you know, it’s the last class of the term, and after the last class we usually all go to the pub. So ... let’s make an early start of it.”

As soon as they reached the pub, Brian suggested that they start a kitty. “Rounds get ridiculous in a group this size. Let’s start off with a couple of quid each and see how we go.” They took over a couple of tables, and used someone’s bowl - collected from the class that evening - to store the cash. One of the men wrote down the orders and went to the bar with the bowl and some helpers.

While they waited, the owner of the bowl said, “It’s just right for a kitty, you know. Lucky timing.”

“Yeah,” said Doyle, “we wouldn’t have got far with the candlesticks.” Doyle had been on lates the week they’d made the bowl.

Brian smiled. “It’s not an accident, you know.” He tapped his forehead. “Planning.”

The drinks started arriving. Doyle settled back with his pint of bitter. He still wasn’t in the mood to take any social initiative, though he felt perfectly comfortable; they were a nice group, and he was happy just to sit and watch.

 More than an hour went by, in which the kitty was refilled and two more rounds were bought. With each new round the group reorganised itself slightly. After the third round Doyle found himself discussing Christmas with Joe, a stocky, dark-haired man with a faintly Latin appearance.

Joe said, “It always seems to creep up on you, doesn’t it? I mean, I haven’t even started on my Christmas cards yet.” Doyle nodded, but said nothing. He’d given up sending Christmas cards years ago. He didn’t know many men who did send them, or who admitted to it, anyway. After a mouthful of beer he asked, “Where are you spending Christmas? Staying in London?”

A vigorous shake of the head. “I’m going to my sister’s in Southampton. She’s having the whole family this year. For the first time, too.” He carried on talking about his family and its Christmas habits. It was obviously a close family.

Doyle became absorbed in watching Joe’s enthusiasm, and was taken by surprised when the man changed the topic.

“What about you?”

“Hmm?” Doyle had been thinking about families, and had forgotten Christmas.

“What are you doing for Christmas?”

“Oh. I’ll be working.”

“No? What a shame.” A short pause, then quickly, as if suddenly remembering, “You’re a policeman, aren’t you?”

Doyle hid his surprise as he nodded. Carol must have spoken to Joe the week before. She’d probably warned _everyone_.

“Do you usually work over Christmas?”

“Usually, yeah.”

“That must be a real pain. I’d hate it.”

Doyle shrugged, and asked Joe what he did for a living.

When Joe went to the gent’s, Doyle allowed himself to frown. He was not pleased with Carol, although he told himself he shouldn’t care - he was proud of his job. He didn’t like the idea of her talking about him, though Joe didn’t seem to care. Or did he? Had there been a change once he’d remembered? He was no longer sure.

When the time came for the next round, Doyle helped to get it, and limited himself to a half. He returned to the group with the woman who’d dealt with the order, and then fell into conversation with her and another man. He never learnt their names. After a few minutes the woman looked at him assessingly, and said, “You’re in the police, aren’t you?”

“Yup, I’m a constable at the local nick.”

The man shook his head in amusement, and said, smiling, “Somehow you don’t expect to meet a copper at a class like this.”

Doyle sighed inwardly, but smiled back as he answered. “There are all sorts in the force of today, you know.” That lead to a general discussion of the force of today, which attracted the attention of a couple of others. It was all perfectly friendly, but it wasn’t what Doyle wanted to talk about. They wouldn’t let the subject drop.

Finally he escaped by draining his glass, putting it on the table, and saying, “Well, I have to be off. I’ve got an early start tomorrow.” He stood up, and took his leave of the group.

Brian raised his glass at him. “’Bye, Ray. See you next year.”

“See you.”

As he walked home he debated whether he would go back in January. He had obviously become their tame copper, of interest only as a copper. Maybe the novelty would pass and he’d become just Ray Doyle. It would be a shame to give up. If he didn’t go back he’d never be able to finish his jar. He’d see how he felt after Christmas.

* * * * *

It was a long week after that. He hadn’t been looking forward to their Christmas party, but by the time it arrived he felt he deserved a chance to unwind, and the luxury of getting very drunk.

He enjoyed himself. It was a determinedly mindless piss-up-with-music, and he felt thoroughly at home. Garrett would have hated it. By the time the mob felt the need to conga, Doyle was feeling no pain - or indeed anything much except a desire to go with the flow. After the conga, the next, inevitable move was to link arms in a circle, and surge back and forth in approximate time to calypso music.

At some point Woods broke out of the chain of bodies, and dashed into the space in the centre of the circle, where he then cavorted with no sign of inhibitions. He was quickly joined by six or seven others. Doyle was not tempted. Soon he found himself opposite Woods, who had changed his style and was standing, swaying, his arms above his head. It reminded Doyle of something. After the circle had flexed a few more times, his sluggish brain gave him the answer. _A belly dancer. He looks like a belly dancer._

As he watched, the man closed his eyes, and continued the sinuous movements. Doyle was aware of surprise, but it was faint, as if it was a worn hand-me-down from someone else. The record ended, the circle broke up, and Doyle went off to find his pint.

* * * * *

He got back to his flat on auto-pilot, undressed partially, and passed out. Waking was not so easy. He struggled out of bed sometime in the morning to throw up, drink a lot of cold water, and throw up again. When his stomach had settled down, he dressed and went to get a Sunday paper while the kettle boiled, and then read the colour supplement in the sitting room over a strong black coffee and an orange juice. He was doing well.

But the colour supplement couldn’t last forever. He put it down and picked up the hard-news section. “David Owen claims ...” _Oh, God._ He tried to read the first paragraph several times, but the words wouldn’t connect together. He blinked his watering eyes, rubbed his forehead, and decided to go back to bed.

* * * * *

Before the start of shift on Monday afternoon they were all agreeing that it had been a good party.

“Bit quiet compared to last year, mind,” said Sawyer.

Doyle opened his mouth to ask what had happened last year, then decided he didn’t want to know.

The first three days of the shift were hectic. Doyle spent the time patrolling the high-street and market, and dealing with parties that had got out of hand. On Christmas Eve there were some burglaries, too, with the presents taken from under the tree. “Well out of order,” was the verdict.

“And the TV gone too. Imagine,” said Collins, the youngest member of the relief, “Christmas with no TV.”

Doyle certainly thought it was pretty shitty - all burglaries were - but he couldn’t see that the timing made it any worse. It sometimes seemed to him that Christmas existed just to magnify the miseries of the world. Any misfortune was lamented with the refrain: “Isn’t it terrible? And at Christmas, too.” People really seemed to feel it deeply. But it didn’t have the same magnifying effect on good news.

He kept his opinions to himself.

He enjoyed Christmas Day. It was very quiet. The relief was on minimum strength, and there was a quiet feeling of camaraderie among the dedicated few. The canteen was well stocked with mince pies, and a blind eye was turned to any hip flasks that might be passing around. Afterwards Inspector Saxton led them all to the pub and bought the first round.

Doyle received no presents that day, and gave none. His small collection of cards fitted easily on the windowsill in the living room. He was content as he sat looking at them around midnight with a final glass of scotch. This was how it usually was. He and Mike might exchange joke presents, but that was it. The previous year had been ... an anomaly.

He let himself remember, sighing with a silly nostalgia. It had been a good time. It had been good thinking about presents for him - looking forward to seeing him open them - planning the touches that would make it a special meeting. For that one year he’d been dazzled by the tinsel like everyone else.

 _I wonder what he’s done with the picture. And the jumper. Thrown them away probably. As soon as possible. Torn them up._ The thought made him only slightly sad. He didn’t blame Bodie. _Maybe I shouldn’t have got rid of the book. There was little enough that we gave each other. But I didn’t ... throw it away out of spite. I just - I was never going to read those books again. I’ve still got the jacket. That’s part of my life. Most of the time I forget that he gave it to me._

He sighed again, more deeply. _It was a good time._ The subject was closed.

* * * * *

New Year’s Eve was hell, as usual, though he knew he was getting off lightly. It had been a few years since he’d had to do Trafalgar Square. The last time he’d been on duty there had been the year a woman had died of hypothermia after jumping in the fountain. An officer from another division had tried to get her to an ambulance, but hadn’t been able to make his way through the crowds. Since then the fountains had always been emptied.

By three in the morning the area had calmed down enough for the police to return to the station for their own small celebration.

“To 1981!” Doyle raised his beaker with the rest. He didn’t contribute to the joking toasts which followed. He was concentrating on his own wish for a good year - he had more reasons than most to hope it would be better than 1980. He was sure it would. He’d been feeling better already since he’d worked out that the beat was getting him down, which was a sure sign that he’d got it right; name the problem, and you have power over it.

* * * * *

Over the long weekly leave he decided he wouldn’t go back to the pottery class. It wasn’t an easy decision, and in the end it came down to the fact that he simply wasn’t looking forward to the next term. He still thought that doing an evening class was a good idea; he’d just have to handle the next one differently.

He sat down on Tuesday evening (when he was supposed to be at the first class of the year) with a bottle of wine and “Floodlight”, and was surprised to realise that it was only two months since he’d last done this - after Manchester. The shooting team was something else he had no desire to go back to.

After a few minutes he found another class that looked promising. It was further away than Brian’s class - and in a different police division - but close enough that he’d have no problems getting back in time for night-shift. According to “Floodlight” term didn’t start till the next week, so he’d have plenty of time to come up with an improved strategy.

* * * * *

The strategy was still unformed when he called the Arts Centre on Monday the 12th, and was told that the first class was that very evening. He was on earlies, so he had no excuse. He took himself for a run on the Heath after the end of shift, and did some serious thinking as he ran.

During the short walk from the tube station to the Arts Centre his mouth got progressively dryer, as if his tongue had just turned into a sponge. He couldn’t tell if his tension was excited anticipation or a warning. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t going to change his mind.

He glanced at his striding reflection in a shop window. _Yes, I’d believe that that man works in a sport’s club the other side of St. Albans. If he looked me straight in the eye, I’d just sound sympathetic when he told me that it’s open 24 hours a day, and he has to work shifts._

_“Any chance of look-round? Maybe a game of squash?”_

_“Sorry. They’re really strict on security. They wouldn’t let you in. Even with me.”_

_“Security? How much does a sport’s club need, for God’s sake? They frightened someone’s going to steal the water in the swimming pool?”_

_An embarrassed smile and half-shrug. “Well - It’s ... um ... It’s used a lot by the security services. Government, you know. They get paranoid.”_

_Impressed, but knows not to ask any more. The subject is changed._

Yes. It would do.

* * * * *

He’d never been to the Arts Centre before and was surprised at how busy it was when he arrived. _How do they cope with a class this big?_ But he soon worked out that most of the crowd was there for a play, and he located a member of staff and got directions to the studio.

It was smaller than the one at the school, and cold. Whoever designed the skylights had obviously never imagined anyone working on a winter evening. He looked up at them, and decided to keep his jacket on.

“It’ll warm up,” said a female voice behind him. “Just takes time.”

He turned round, smiling, to see a middle-aged woman wearing an enormous, belted coat. She put her large shoulder-bag down on the table, unwrapped herself from her scarf, and undid the belt on her coat. Doyle sat on a nearby stool.

“You _weren’t_ here last term, were you?”

“No. I’m hoping to join this evening.”

“Oh, good. Well, we’re nearly full, but I can certainly squeeze you in.”

“You teach the class?”

“I do indeed.”

She had struggled out of her coat, and hung it on a hook by the door. Doyle lowered his estimate of her age by a few years now that he saw all of her, in motion. The premature, evenly-spread threads of grey in her straight, black, shoulder-length hair had mislead him. He found the effect attractive, on consideration. The grey introduced texture, and gave an impression of movement and liveliness. Though that might be just as misleading. He forced himself to stop looking.

“Let’s deal with the registration now, before the others arrive. Or do you want to see what the class is like first? I’m not that strict about signing people up. You’re welcome to a couple of weeks trial.”

“Now will be fine.”

“Good.” She sat down next to him, and delved in her handbag. “You’ll have to pay for the full year, I’m afraid. That I have to be strict about.”

She took his name and his money, told him her name was Eva and gave him a receipt.

“Welcome to the class, Ray. I won’t say you haven’t missed anything, but you’ll pick it up.”

“What sort of things have you been doing?”

She started telling him - it sounded much like the other class - and then the rest began to arrive, and she broke off to deal with greetings and enquiries about Christmas.

By the time the lesson started, his tension had completely disappeared. He knew he was going to enjoy himself. The group was small - he made the numbers up to fifteen - and seemed to have become very friendly in the previous term. Eva had introduced him to the first few people through the door, and he’d done his best to catch up with the gossip. He told those who asked about his job at the sports club, but no one was interested enough to want the other details he’d worked out.

The week’s project was a jar, which pleased Doyle further, since it meant he could re-create his sugar basin (or whatever it was) to go with his mugs. He finished it quickly, and thought it was better than the first one; this time he was sure that he’d got the angle on the little handle exactly the same as the slope on the sides of the dish. He thought about making yet another one - for marmalade? - but ended up making a matching milk jug instead.

“You’ve done this before,” said Eva, accusingly.

“Not since school.” Why mention Brian’s class? She probably knew him. Simplest just to shut up about it.

At the break, Doyle joined the move to the café. He sat at a table with Pete (a teacher), Edith (a secretary with a French company), and Elaine (profession unknown). They talked about New Year’s resolutions, since Doyle had said that it was such a resolution that had brought him to the class.

Doyle was determined that he was not going to chat anyone up. Or not the way he had with Carol. _I was too desperate back then. That was part of what went wrong. Trying to prove something. Well, I haven’t anything to prove. I’m happy as I am. And it’s worth coming here just for the pottery and the talk. If something else comes out of it ... fine. But I’m not going to look for it._ He didn’t even let himself appraise Edith, or Elaine, or the others. Since this was breaking the habit of a life-time, it took some effort.

During the glazing session, he stood to the side and watched. Eva wandered over when she was free, and they had a much-interrupted conversation about the Arts Centre, which they concluded in the bar.

* * * * *

During Tuesday’s shift, Doyle walked past Haverstock School during the morning. He thought he could see lights on in the studio. He wondered when Brian and co. would realise he wasn’t coming back - his attendance had been patchy, after all. Would anyone even comment on it? He shrugged, and walked on.

That Tuesday was his last day of beat-work for three months. He had a quiet Wednesday, getting up early for a run, and then having a breakfast coffee in a caff, a habit he’d somehow fallen out of.

 _I should do something that exercises my arms more. Squash would be a start. I haven’t played since - Bodie. And before that, Mike. The relief used to have a squash ladder, but I never hear anyone talking about it anymore. I’ll ask around._ Underlying this were thoughts he didn’t put into words. Surely someone who worked at a sports club would use the facilities. He wouldn’t just go jogging.

In the early evening he went to see a film in town, and on the way back dropped into a pub where he found, as expected, five or six members of the relief. They looked pleased to see him, but then their glasses _were_ getting empty.

Woods was there, of course. Doyle was feeling less and less comfortable around Woods, and he was sure this was quite irrational of him, since the man seemed very popular with everyone else. The rat business ... Well, that didn’t help, but it had got worse since the Christmas party. Woods had been away for the week after the party, and Doyle had barely thought of him. But he was back for the New Year, and the first time Doyle had seen him, he had suddenly remembered the belly dancing, which stood out clearly in his vague recollections of the last hours of that night.

Before that, he had never thought of Woods and sex without a five minute gap between the thoughts. Woods was nothing like Bodie. It was an insult. But there had been something about him as he’d stood there with his eyes closed ... swaying ...

Doyle couldn’t put it out of his head. He didn’t find Woods attractive. He _didn’t_. Didn’t like him, after all. Would avoid him - except he was paid to work with him.

But ... standing two feet away from him in the tatty pub, Doyle wasn’t seeing his face in its current expression of steady-eyed challenge. _He’d close his eyes and twist from side to side if I sucked his cock. I know he would. I know just how he’d look._

Doyle only stayed for one pint.

* * * * *

MacKenzie seemed pleased to have him back, although there were no complaints about Stone. There never were.

When the disjointed, aggression-filled weekend came to an end, Doyle had decided that his idea of stability would probably puzzle an outsider. _What would most people call “a settled life”? Farming, probably. Something carried on through generations._ From the little he knew of his own family, he was the first to join the police. _Wonder why I suit it so well? Just ... well-adjusted, maybe._ He twitched his eyebrows, knowing it sounded smug, but ... Why not?

Monday was quiet, which annoyed him more than the earlier aggravation. He wanted to be at the pottery class. Why couldn’t he just slip away for three hours, while he wasn’t needed? A whole week to wait for the next one.

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, and rolled a parcel of air around in his mouth, finally releasing it in a noisy sigh. “Come on, _do_ something, you lazy sods.” He addressed the dark street. “Don’t you wanna get the full value out of your tax money?”

MacKenzie laughed. “You’re always like this, the first week back.”

“I’m always like this anyway. Didn’t join to sit around and do nothing, did I?”

“Dunno where you get the energy. Me, I like a chance to catch my breath.”

“Healthy living. Oh, that reminds me. Do you know if there’s a squash ladder these days? You used to be keen, didn’t you?”

MacKenzie shrugged. “Took up a lot of time. Mike took it so seriously, like it was a matter of life and -“ He broke off and rubbed his nose vigorously. “Well, since ... since then no one’s got round to it. Why?”

“Just felt like a game or two. Need more exercise than _this_ , don’t I?” He jerked his hand, intending to indicate the interior of the car and his frustration. “Who still plays?”

“Dunno. Woods? He was racing up the ladder like there was a Doberman after him. Sawyer maybe.”

“What about yourself?”

“Mates at home.” He nodded his head towards the south. “Just friendly stuff. Can’t remember the score ten minutes after.”

“How about a game sometime?”

Casual nod. “OK. Why not?”

* * * * *

When their night-shift came round, Doyle was less impatient. You expected nights to be quiet. Action was a bonus, not a right. Sometimes he drove them on countless circuits of his favourite route. Sometimes he parked off the High Street. Sometimes he went back to the station. The choice seemed random, even to him, but MacKenzie just accepted it. Maybe he thought Doyle was acting on highly-developed copper’s instincts.

They saw little of the rest of the relief, except in the canteen. During the Sunday meal-break, MacKenzie asked Woods if he was still playing squash - he was - and then told him that Doyle was looking for a game. Doyle couldn’t deny it, so he assumed an expectant expression.

Woods was more enthusiastic than MacKenzie had been. “What sort of time would suit you?”

Doyle shrugged. “Afternoon, I guess. After earlies.” He left it to Woods to sort something out. Maybe he’d forget about it.

* * * * *

He arrived early for pottery on the Monday evening, just after Eva had hung up her coat.

“Ah! You’ve decided to come back. I was wondering if we’d see you again.”

He smiled apologetically. “I work shifts. I should have mentioned it the other week.”

“You’ve got the day off, then?”

“No. No, I’m on nights at the moment. It’s just when I’m on lates that I won’t be able to make it. And that’s about once a month.”

“Oh, I see.” It seemed a new concept to her. “What do you do, then?”

* * * * *

The project for the week was “a vase”. When Eva announced it, there were murmurs of puzzlement, and a woman said, “But we did a vase last term.”

“And that was the only vase you could possibly make? A talented group like you? I don’t believe it.

“Now, this time I want to all to do a vase that’s the complete opposite of the one you made last time. If you made an elegant bud vase, do ... a gothic monster that will lurk in the corner and growl in the middle of the night. If you made something chunky and countrified that’s now holding dried flowers, do something sinuous and sinister that Cruella de Ville would put orchids in.

“And don’t think I’ve forgotten what you did last term. You wimp out and the entire class will know about it.” There was laughter and growing enthusiasm. Doyle could see minds revving up.

He raised his hand. “What about me? What’s the opposite of nothing?”

“Ah. Ray. A trouble-maker with a searching philosophical question.” She was obviously enjoying herself. “Do what you like. Or ... how about a vase with two different sides? A Jekyll and Hyde vase?” She propped her chin on her knuckles, and made a wide-eyed face at him. “A _challenge,_ eh?”

It was. He would have liked more time to think about it. In the end, he was pleased with his idea, but knew the execution could have been better. It was frustrating. The others seemed impressed with it as it was, though. The Jekyll side was a neat series of steps, like terraced fields cut into a hill. The Hyde side was like a collapsed tower block - jumbled, broken rooms with their contents spilling out. There was a hole about an inch wide at the top, and he’d sunk many smaller channels (the width of a stalk, he hoped) in suitable places in the wreckage. He doubted if it was water-tight.

After the break he glazed his jar and milk-jug. He hoped it would turn out a subtle blue-green, darkening towards the base. They certainly wouldn’t match the mugs exactly, but they should look as if they formed a set.

Just before the class finished, a long-haired woman, whose name Doyle didn’t know, announced that her house was giving a party on Friday, and they were all welcome. She waved a handful of slips of paper and said, “The directions and stuff are all here if you want to grab one on the way out.” She put them on the table. Doyle took one. It seemed the thing to do.

He went home after the class to change into his uniform trousers and shirt. Before he set off, he cleared out the pockets of his jacket. He scrunched up the party invitation, but stopped just before flipping open the bin, and then straightened it out on the kitchen counter. The house was in Stoke Newington. Not exactly next door, but he could walk home in about an hour if he missed the last bus.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to a civilian party. Not since ... well ... school. _Did a lot of relaxing after the “O” levels, we did._ What about parties with girlfriends? There must have been some. What about Ann? His lip curled. _Bloody dinner parties. Not much fun there. Couple of those killed us dead. Just as well._

No, it had been a long time. Of course, it might be awful. Most people at the class had taken a slip, but how many would turn up? Would the woman from the class even recognise him? Still ... a chance to see a civilian party from the inside - not just as a door with too much noise behind it. He’d see how he felt on Friday.

* * * * *

On Friday evening he took the tube to Euston and got the 73 bus to Stoke Newington. It was a minor adventure. He knew the area slightly, but previously he’d always been driving through. He wasn’t sure what the route of the bus was, or when he should get off. As it turned out, he judged it nicely. The map on the invitation was clear, and he found the house after ten minutes’ walk.

The long-haired woman answered the door. He held up his bottle of wine. “It’s Ray,” he said. “From -“

“Eva’s class. Hi. Come in.” She led him into the house, and straight to the kitchen, where he got himself a beer and she refilled her wine glass. “There aren’t many from the class. In fact, there’s only you and Pete so far. But it’s early yet.” She led him back through the sitting room and introduced him to a few people while searching for Pete. He still didn’t know her name.

Pete was sitting on the arm of a battered, rust-coloured settee, listening to the argument about passive smoking taking place in the body of the settee, but making no effort to join in. He looked up smiling as his hostess called his name.

“Hi, Ray. Glad to see someone else made it.”

“You been here long?” The woman had disappeared, having successfully delegated the task of entertaining Doyle.

“’bout half an hour.”

“Do you know many people here?”

“Just you and Marion. She’s introduced me to ...” He waved his hand round the room. “But I wouldn’t recognise any of them again.”

Doyle smiled. “Same here.”

Pete had stood up, and was scanning the room.

“What are you looking for?”

“A chair. You’ll get backache standing there. Ah ha. Hang on.” He disappeared into the throng and came back carrying a paint-spattered chair that Doyle thought he recognised from the kitchen. In the other hand he had two cans of beer. Doyle settled himself beside the settee.

They talked about the class. Pete said he’d chosen it because it was near the school where he worked. Now Doyle vaguely remembered the man saying he was a teacher. “I’d have thought you’d have enough of lessons during the day.”

He shook his head. “It’s relaxing to watch someone else doing all the work. Anyway, I teach maths to teenagers. Couldn’t be more different.”

Doyle tried to imagine Pete standing in front of a blackboard, trying to keep the back row in order. He was a small man - wouldn’t have made it into the Met - but obviously confident. And why should height have anything to do with it anyway? Garrett had been smaller even than Pete, and she could be bloody intimidating when she chose.

“Is this the first time you’ve done an evening class?”

Another shake of the head. “No. Fifth year running, I think.”

“All pottery?”

“God, no. Let’s see.” He frowned at a point above Doyle’s head. “Photography. Woodwork. Tailoring. Screen-printing.” He looked at Doyle again. “I think that’s it. I’m useless at all of them.”

“Are you searching for a ... vocation, or something?”

“Nah. Just dabbling. It’s cheap entertainment. What about you? Why the New Year’s Resolution? You planning an escape from the sports club?”

Doyle blinked twice in mild surprise. Pete had obviously paid closer attention to their previous conversations than he had. “No. I just decided over Christmas that I’d got into a rut. I hadn’t been ... _doing_ anything, except sitting on my bum watching T.V.”

The teacher glanced over the length of the lean body that was half-turned towards him. With those tight jeans, and the arms of the moss-green jumper pushed up, Ray looked like a text-book illustration of “muscle-tone”. He looked at the legs again, and then back to Doyle’s face, via his crotch. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

Doyle’s eyebrows twitched, then he grinned. “That’s just work. Doesn’t count.” They smiled at one another. _Flirting_ , thought Doyle, _Yes, I remember this._ He felt no surprise that it was a man, just excitement now, and warmth. There had been no warmth with Carol. OK, so he hadn’t felt instant attraction for Pete - any man who didn’t look like Bodie was at a disadvantage with him - but now he was looking, he saw a lot he liked.

“Why pottery?” _Deep brown eyes._

“Dunno. It was the first thing I thought of.” _Thick, dark eyebrows, in smooth, regular curves._ “I guess - “ He shrugged. “ - I liked the idea of bashing clay about. Taking out my frustrations.”

“You have many frustrations?” _Deep-cut smile lines beside his mouth. Even teeth, except for prominent canines. If you looked closely you could see the tips exposed sometimes, pressing against the lower lip._

“Hundreds,” Doyle said slowly, with a meaningful widening of his eyes. _The moustache. Not sure about the moustache. Not what I’m used to. It suits him, I think. Neat. Well-trimmed. Just a firm dark line under his nose. I could get used to it._ He bent down to drop his beer can and pick up the other two. He held one out. Their hands touched.

“And is the pottery helping?”

“At the moment?” Pause. “No.”

“Shame.”

“Not complaining.”

Their eyes met and held for several seconds, and they smiled again, more broadly this time. Doyle thought of saying, _We could leave now, if you like_ , but he was enjoying himself. And it might turn awkward in the end - you could never tell. Why rush?

* * * * *

They stayed in their spot for hours. No one else from the class turned up, and they were not interrupted. They were only aware of the rest of the party when the music changed to something one of them particularly liked or hated, or when a trip to the kitchen or the toilet became necessary.

When it was Doyle’s turn to go to the kitchen he found that the beer had run out. His bottle of Rioja was still untouched, so he claimed it. Pete watched him seriously as he made his way back. They were probably thinking very similar thoughts.

_He really does look good. Neat, but relaxed. I like the shape of his head - square, but there’s a nice curve to his jaw. And soft-looking brown hair. Short, but ... comfortable. Bet it’s just been washed - it won’t lie down. Younger than me, I think. Two or three years, maybe._

They drank the wine slowly. Neither was interested in getting drunk. They talked about London, about moving to London, about making friends in London. Doyle invented more details of his career, painting himself as a drifter.

Doyle looked at his watch and saw it was nearly midnight. “Where do you have to get back to?”

Pete checked the time, but didn’t seem bothered. “Kilburn. I _thought_ I’d miss the last tube. Marion said I could stay here, anyway.”

“Or come back to my place. It’s a lot closer.”

“OK, thanks.”

They settled back to finish the wine.

* * * * *

“Shall we get a taxi? Or walk?” asked Doyle as they stood up and went in search of Pete’s overcoat.

“I don’t mind. Walk would probably do me good. But you’ll freeze with just that jacket on.”

A shrug. “I don’t really feel the cold. I’d been planning on walking.” Pause. “Should we find Marion? Tell her we’re going?”

“Nah. She won’t miss us.”

They slipped out into the street. The area wasn’t deserted, but it was winding down - the busy time was over for the night shift. They carried on their conversation, and didn’t hurry.

“I’m glad we didn’t get a taxi,” Pete said after a mile. “I don’t often see the city like this. It’s like being a tourist.”

Doyle nodded, but said nothing. The city at night was nothing new to him.

* * * * *

They reached his flat before two o’clock. “I’ll turn on the heating. Do you want a coffee?”

“Please.”

“Scotch? Brandy? It’s all in the cupboard down there. Help yourself.”

“Glasses?”

“Above your head.”

Pete took down two tumblers. “What about yourself?”

“Scotch, please. A small one.”

Doyle nearly took out his hand-made mugs, since they were his current favourites, but he stopped himself just in time. _I should hide them away when he’s here. If he’s noticed the jar ... I haven’t got a story for them._

They settled on the sofa. Pete looked around. “This is a nice place.”

“Yeah.”

“Expensive?”

Doyle made a so-so gesture with his hand. He didn’t want to explain his finances - they were probably not credible for a drifter in a sports club.

He wasn’t sure what to do next. The flirtation had eased off after that first few minutes, and now ... They were both still interested, obviously, but here they were alone together and they still had their clothes on. His experience with Bodie, though it had taught him much, had not supplied him with the social skills for this sort of situation.

“One bedroom?”

“Yeah.”

“Double bed?”

“Yeah.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

Doyle relaxed, but assumed a look of indignation. “To finish our coffee.”

“Whatever you say.” Pete moved closer and put his hand on Doyle’s thigh, a couple of inches below the crotch. The heat seeped through the cotton in a matter of seconds. Six months. Six months since anyone had touched him. His cock started to fill. Pete slid his hand further up.

Doyle leaned over and cupped his palm firmly over corduroy-covered genitals. He rubbed slowly, excited by the very idea of what he was doing, as well as by the bulk pushing against his hand. Pete gripped his hair, and pulled him down for a kiss. The moustache brushed against his upper lip, not unpleasant at all, but a prickling contrast to the slickness of tongue and teeth. Hungry, he opened his mouth wide. It had been so long.

“What about the coffee?” murmured Pete, breathless.

“Changed my mind. Come on.” They got to their feet and Doyle led them across the corridor.

They undressed quickly. Pete was hairy, as Doyle had half-expected. His body looked young, and defenceless. No scars, no hard-earned muscle. Not like Bodie at all. Not like himself. They stood by the bed, hands moving on one another’s back in rhythm with their mouths.

Eventually Pete drew back slightly, stepping to

Doyle’s left, and pushed gently at his hip until Doyle got the hint and turned to face the bedside lamp. They both looked down at Doyle’s erection. Pete licked his lips.

“You’re even sexier than I imagined. I didn’t think there were any men like you left.”

Doyle swallowed. Pete’s left hand stroked down his twitching belly, and then wandered through his pubic hair, stroking and twisting, never quite touching his cock. His right hand drifted from Doyle’s hip to cup his buttock, and rubbed slowly, the fingertips drifting into the cleft. Doyle’s hips jerked, and he gasped.

“What would you like?” Low, and urgent.

Doyle swallowed again. He looked away from the light for the space of seven rapid breaths, and then turned to meet Pete’s eyes. “I like being fucked.” Was that what he’d meant to say?

“Yes. Oh. God, yes.” A deep kiss, and then the teacher was urging him backwards onto the bed.

“Now?”

He nodded.

“Where’s the stuff?”

“Bottom drawer.” He watched the slow, thorough application of the lubricant. Short, but thick. Polished-looking. Veins hardly noticeable. Not like Bodie at all. His arse was simmering with anticipation.

When Pete squeezed a dollop of gel on the tips of his fingers and knelt forward on the bed, Doyle made a quick, arbitrary decision and rolled onto his stomach. He pressed back onto the fingers, groaning. He had tightened up - he could feel that. But he wasn’t frightened.

It did hurt, but not much, and not for long. It helped that he knew how good it could be. They didn’t speak, though they weren’t silent, and they were both determined to make it last.

Doyle was aware of Pete’s body-hair brushing rhythmically against his back and against his thighs, the gentle sensations a thrillingly incongruous frame for the pulsing, burning tightness between his legs. Finally, the need became too much, and he worked his hand under his belly, clasped it tightly over Pete’s, and came after a few strong thrusts. The other man immediately abandoned restraint, and reached a moaning finish that left Doyle aching and soaking and happy.

They lay panting, their arms entwined around Doyle’s chest. Doyle felt the kiss of lips and moustache against his shoulders and the back of his neck. He smiled, and stroked along Pete’s forearm to find and clasp his hand. He felt himself drifting near sleep.

He was tugged back to a groggy wakefulness when his lover untangled their arms, clambered upright and moved to the side. He rolled over onto his back with a sigh, and lazily lifted an arm to pull Pete down to his open mouth. They lapped gently while their pulses slowed completely and the draft in the room dispersed the heat they’d generated.

Finally Pete shivered. “Ray. Let’s get under the covers. Or I’ll freeze solid.”

Doyle nodded, and they slid to the side of the bed and stood up. The movement caused Doyle’s chest-hair to pull, and he looked down at himself. “I’ll just clean up,” he mumbled, and headed for the bathroom. Pete followed.

They shared the flannel, then Doyle started brushing his teeth.

“Have you got a spare toothbrush?”

Doyle carried on brushing, and with his other hand opened the cabinet and felt on the top shelf for Bodie’s brush, which he’d almost forgotten about. Briefly he wondered who was using the one he’d left at Bodie’s flat. In his contented frame of mind, the thought amused him and he gave a short laugh, which allowed a drop of toothpaste to escape from his mouth and wander down the centre of his chin.

“What?” asked Pete indistinctly through his own mouthful of foam.

Doyle shook his head, and waved his hand, meaning “Nothing”.

* * * * *

In the late morning one of Doyle’s near neighbours started tuning his car engine. The two men groaned in unison, turned yawning to face one another, and then smiled. They rolled closer still.

“Did you have any plans for today?” whispered Doyle against glistening lips.

“Staying in bed with you?”

“What a coincidence. That’s what _I_ was planning.” The breath of their laughter stirred their hair. They kissed again.

“Would getting up for breakfast spoil your plans?”

“Mmm. A short breakfast, maybe.” A smile. “Have that coffee you were so bothered about.”

“Huh. Be cold by now.” A joint-popping stretch of the neck and back. “I’ll put the kettle on. Don’t get up. Stay there and save your energy.”

But Pete was already out of bed. “Is there hot water for a shower?”

“Loads. Toast?”

“No, thanks. It just goes soggy and you can’t get a good lather.”

Doyle stared at him, and then burst out laughing. Pete smirked.

“Well, what _would_ you like for breakfast?”

“Toast would be great. Have you got any Marmite?”

“Yeah. Catering-size.” Marmite and Jaffa-cakes. Bodie’s idea of a balanced diet.

* * * * *

Pete showered very quickly, and emerged with a towel around his waist and hair in damp tufts to take over buttering the toast. They met again in Doyle’s bed.

The teacher blew gently over the steaming surface of his coffee. “I am so glad you turned out not to be straight. I wasn’t sure, at first.”

Doyle said nothing. He held his mug in both hands, and lifted it to his face.

A sideways glance. Half-mockingly: “Don’t tell me you _are_ straight.”

The glance returned. “Have a job to make it convincing, wouldn’t I?”

A snort and nod, then, “Yeah, but it’s been tried. You know.”

“Yeah. I know.”

They drank in silence for some minutes, their shoulders touching. Doyle leaned over to pour out the last of the coffee from the pot.

“So. Whose toothbrush?”

Doyle shook his head. “He’s long gone.”

“Mmm.”

Sip of scalding coffee. “What about you?”

“Oh.” Shrug. “He’s never even arrived.” Pause. “Not that I’m waiting up for him.”

“Mmm.”

* * * * *

Doyle came back from dumping the breakfast crockery in the sink. Pete smiled briefly at him as he appeared in the doorway, then fixed his attention on a point a couple of feet further down. Doyle stood still for nearly half a minute. The look of concentration never wavered. It could have been intimidating. It wasn’t.

He moved closer to the bed, looked down at the man propped against the pillows, then leaned forward and pulled back the duvet. Pete was veined-pink and soft brown against the white sheet. He’d barely touched him, before. He propped his left knee on the edge of the bed, and slipped his hand between furred thighs. The thighs parted. Balancing more carefully, he freed his other hand to knead a slightly-rounded stomach.

Before long, he slid his hands closer together, and then bent his head towards them. The near-ache in his jaw was pleasure. Pete’s fingers rested lightly on his face, dipped into his mouth. Then they were tugging at his hair to get his attention. He raised his head slowly, and looked at the teacher enquiringly - still crouched low, licking his lips.

“Together. Even better together.”

After a second he nodded, and after some graceless manoeuvring in the centre of the bed, they settled down for a shared climb to orgasm through the more hospitable, domesticated regions of that landscape.

* * * * *

They drowsed into the afternoon. Doyle got up to put some classical music on the stereo and then returned to bed, leaving the doors wide open. It was very pleasant. He’d never seemed to have time for this with Bodie. In his memory, their affair was a sequence of snatched hours. And Bodie got restless after two minutes of this music.

It didn’t bother him in the slightest that his long celibacy had been broken with a man. The sex and the kindness had been too good to allow doubts. He had Bodie to thank for a large part of the peace he felt.

Was it perverse that he felt closer to Bodie than at any time since they’d split up? What had he said in the letter? _I know that for the rest of my life I’ll be comparing people with you and being disappointed._ Well, maybe not so disappointed. Not comparing though. Not really.

He felt the urge to tell Pete how long it had been, that in some ways he was new to this. He wanted to talk about himself. But what could he say that wouldn’t, in the end, bring the whole story out? And

Bodie’s story was not his to tell. He hadn’t changed his mind on that. He shouldn’t even have said that about the toothbrush. He’d been too relaxed. Not thinking. Never again.

* * * * *

They got up eventually and Doyle prepared large bacon and tomato sandwiches which they ate in the sitting room. Pete was impressed with the video.

“I rented it pretty well as soon as they came out. Working shifts ...” He shrugged. “... it was what I’d been waiting for.”

“You can rent films, can’t you? I heard there was a place that delivered them to your door.”

“That’s down Fulham way, I think. Around here you have to walk. You fancy watching something?”

“Well ... yeah. If you don’t mind. I’ve just got a little black-and-white TV. This is all very high-tech to me.”

Doyle stood up. “Shall we go now? Get some beer in, too?”

They came back with “Jaws”, “Young Frankenstein” and eight cans of Carlsberg. As Doyle was unlocking the door, he turned round, and said, “Do you want to stay the night?”

Pete grinned, and said, “What do _you_ think?”

“It’s just I’m on earlies tomorrow. I’ll have to get up about five thirty. How do you feel about missing your Sunday lie-in?” He didn’t want to leave Pete alone in the flat. He barely knew him, and then there was the gun and the shooting trophies and all the other things he’d find if he was nosy.

“Ah.” They were in the corridor by then. “Since you put it like that.” Pause. “How long are you on earlies?”

“A week. Then lates for a week - don’t get back to town until eleven thirty at night. Then nights.”

“Shit. It must pay bloody well, that’s all I can say.”

“It does.”

“Hmm. What if you slept over at my place? Be easier, wouldn’t it?”

“S’pose so. We’ll work something out.” Doyle wasn’t quite sure what Pete had planned for the two of them. Probably just a lot of good sex. _Hope so. He’s nice, but ... I can’t face getting mushy over anyone. Not what I’m looking for._ In fact, the idea made him feel slightly ill. He busied himself putting the beer in the fridge.

* * * * *

They leaned together in a corner of the sofa, but neither tried to turn it into a groping session. Pete obviously took his films seriously. With Bodie, it had varied. Doyle had often teased him about his attention span but had never worked out the pattern - something to do with work, probably.

By the time the second film ended, it was past eight o’clock, and they were hungry. Doyle made an omelette, Pete a salad, and they ate at the dining table, where they stayed afterwards, finishing the bottle of white wine.

“ _Do_ you want to come back to my place?”

“I do but ...” He shook his head. “... not tonight. I need my car in the morning, and I can’t drive now.” He waved his half-full glass.

“No, right. And I can’t make tomorrow. Monday? After the class?”

“Great.” Doyle nodded, smiling.

Pete left around half past ten. They kissed for a long time at the door and Doyle nearly changed his mind and invited him to stay the night - stay all of Sunday. Nearly.

Afterwards he wandered around the flat, tidying up, washing up. From time to time he ran his tongue around his lips. They were still sending messages of pressure.

* * * * *

Over the next couple of days of work he saw sex everywhere. Mike would have been impressed. It stayed bearable - just a delightful secret that had him smirking, and aware as never before of how many cocks there were in the division.

When he got home on Sunday and on Monday, he stripped, threw himself back on the bed, and thought about being fucked. It didn’t stay bearable for long.

Afterwards, on the second day, he lay idly spreading semen around the hollow under his hard-working rib cage, and reflecting, with a slight feeling of tension, that his fantasies were still under careful control.

_Should be proud of myself, I suppose._

Would he ever get to the point when fucking a man was just one item in a selection of pleasures?

_Can’t see it. I can’t even ... ask for it. Just can’t. Doesn’t matter._

He sat up, rubbing his face hard with his hand, had a quick shower and went for a long run.

* * * * *

He drove to the Arts Centre that evening, and found a parking place without difficulty. Pete arrived soon after and they sat together. Doyle gave little concentration to the class, distracted by the movements of Pete’s hands under the table. He told him off, but with little conviction. To him, his rhinoceros piggy-bank looked drunk and half-made, but Eva said it was “lively”.

He made more effort when glazing his Jekyll-and-Hyde vase. He wanted the terraced side a light, healthy green with shadings of black in the corners, and the bombed side a deep, shiny black. He felt he was finally getting the hang of glaze. His jar and jug had turned out very well.

Pete left him alone for a while, dipped last week’s small, irregular pyramid in a colourless glaze, and then sat flicking random spots of blue onto this base layer. He announced when he’d finished that it was probably the least repulsive thing he’d ever made in an evening class. “I might even keep it.”

They missed out the bar at the end of the class, and Doyle drove them straight to Pete’s house. The area looked shabby, but safe. He parked a few doors down.

“I’ve warned Dave and Dave that you’re an early riser, so you shouldn’t have them banging on the wall when you’re in the shower.”

“You share this place?”

“Well, it’s theirs. I have the spare room.”

“Oh. Have you known them long?”

“I met Dave - Dave Eddings, the red-head, that is - at college. We shared a flat with a bunch of others, kept in touch afterwards. Then when _his_ Dave arrived on the scene, and they decided to buy a house - quickest

marriage _I’ve_ ever seen - well, they got this place and looked around for a lodger.

“It works OK. We argue about taking the garbage out, and about letting the washing-up liquid run out, but I don’t think you can avoid that. They’re not too ...” He waved a hand vaguely. “... slushy. Well, you’ll see.”

They were inside the hallway. It looked like a basic two-up-two-down. Doyle followed Pete’s lead and hung his jacket on the overloaded rack. He could hear the sound of a television through the door to his left. He felt strangely nervous about meeting a gay couple in their own house. Was he going to have to sit and talk? What would he say?

Pete didn’t give him any more time to think about it. They were in the living room. It was a large room, stretching the length of the house, with an arch in the middle where a wall used to be. The sofa and black-and-white television were at the front, to the left of the door, and the dining table, bookcases and stereo at the back. The arrangement was like his own living room, but flipped round.

The two men in the sofa near the door looked up.

“Ray, Dave and Dave. Easy to remember.”

“Hi.” He nodded, smiling. The red-head was practically blond - it was the freckles and the pink complexion that swung the balance. He looked as if he blushed easily and ferociously. The other Dave was tanned, dark, and intense-looking. But they both seemed friendly.

“I’ll just get some beers. Do you want anything?”

The dark Dave said, “There’s some white wine in the fridge. Could you bring it through?”

Pete disappeared through the other door in the room, and Doyle was left alone with the Daves.

“How was the class?” The dark Dave again.

“OK. I think she’s running out of ideas, though. It was piggy-banks today. We’ll be making souvenir ash-trays next.”

The other men laughed, and Doyle smiled, pleased. The red-head asked, “Do you get to go on the wheel? That always looks fun.”

“I don’t know. They’ve only got a couple in the studio so I don’t know how they’d manage with fifteen of us.”

“Do it in shifts, maybe?”

“Maybe.” Pete had come back, and stepped in front of Doyle to pass the half-empty bottle over. Doyle asked him, “Do you know if we get to use the wheel? In Eva’s class?”

“If you want to, I think. Personally, I’m terrified of those things. I imagine it going completely out of control and flinging clay out of all the windows.”

The red-headed Dave said dryly, “Pete’s mechanically incompetent, Ray. Never let him put up a deck-chair for you - summer will be over by the time he’s finished. He’s disaster with anything that moves.”

Pete didn’t seem offended. He touched Doyle’s arm lightly. “Come on, Ray. We’ll leave these two glued to ‘Coronation Street’.”

Pete’s bedroom was at the back of the house, on the left at the top of the uncarpeted stairs. It was next door to the bathroom, which he pointed out to Doyle as they went past. The bedroom was freezing, and Pete immediately turned a fan heater on full blast. Doyle stood looking round, slightly dismayed. It was like a small, dark-brown cave. He’d never seen such a heavy-looking wardrobe.

“I know,” said Pete. “They haven’t even set a date for re-decorating. Believe it or not, I can ignore it most of the time. I just turn my back to it and never use the main light.” He switched on the angle-poise lamp on the desk in the corner, and directed the beam away from the pile of exercise books and towards the wall.

“Could you see to the bedside light?”

Doyle obliged, and then turned off the pitiless ceiling light. It was still a cave, but a cosy one just right for hibernation. He sat down on the pine bed that was at least a foot lower than the bedside cabinet, and listened to Pete clattering through the pile of cassettes that surrounded the ghetto-blaster on the chest-of-drawers.

“What’s this?” he asked as Pete settled next to him and handed over a can of beer.

“Joni Mitchell. It’s the new album.”

“Oh.” He’d never heard the old one.

They drank in silence for a while. The room had warmed up quickly. Doyle tried to make out the details in the black-and-white posters of muscular young men that hung on the wall opposite. Where had he bought them? Not the Tate anyway.

“You’re right. It’s OK like this.”

An amused breath against his neck. “Well. I should have warned you, anyway.”

They turned to look at one another, then, in unison, reached back without looking to put their beer cans on the floor. They shed their clothes in haste, with much squirming since they wouldn’t let go for long enough to sit, let alone stand up.

“Second drawer,” gasped Pete.

“Uh?” Then Doyle caught on and leaned over precariously to tug open the drawer on the bedside cabinet and grope inside. When he’d found the tube he knelt up, squeezed out a handful, and reached out to Pete’s rock-hard cock.

But Pete shook his head and grasped his hand, pushing it back. Doyle went still - just waited, not able to do anything. Pete leaned forward a few more inches, and Doyle bucked as the cool gel made contact.

“God, you’re keen. God.” Pete wasted no time in covering the whole impressive length. Doyle shuddered, and then moaned hoarsely when the other man turned to present himself.

“Come on. Come _on._ ”

But it wasn’t that simple for Doyle. He took the tube again, and covered his fingertips.

One finger. Oh. So hot. So smooth.

Two fingers. He scissored them back and forth. Pete’s hands were kneading the pillow.

Three. He was very careful. Very slow. Pete cursed him and pushed back strongly, driving the fingers in past the second knuckle.

“Come _on_. What are you waiting for, for Christ’s sake?”

He didn’t wait any longer. He was salivating heavily as he parted the small, rounded buttocks. The puckered hole was glistening with gel in the lamplight. He watched as it sucked him in.

He tried to make it last but they had both started too close to the edge. Pete was very noisy and very appreciative. Doyle was silent except for a rising series of almost disbelieving groans. It was many minutes before he was in a state to wonder what the Daves would have been able to hear.

* * * * *

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d be one to tease.” Pete sounded content, but he was not joking.

Doyle swallowed. “I wasn’t - I just - “ He swallowed again. “First time, I like to be sure.”

Pete smiled and kissed the side of his mouth. “It’s nice to meet a man with manners, but I’m no more a virgin than you are. Don’t worry so much.”

Doyle tightened the grip of his arms and lay silent, looking at the circle of light on the ceiling above his head. The tape was still playing. He felt dimly that he should be talking, showing that he wasn’t some boor who heaved around and fell asleep straight afterwards. But he was beyond conversation, and Pete wasn’t his first concern.

Why did it feel like a betrayal? Hadn’t he decided that he had to be free of Bodie, had to get his own life back on course? This was just another part of that - of what he’d been doing ever since they split up. Surely this even proved that he’d been right to finish it? He was happy. That had been the point of all that grief at the end - to sever them so he could be happy.

It had been good, for him and for Pete. They would do it again. And again. And he would worry less each time. He saw the sequence of nights and weekends to come, limbs entwined on this bed or his own.

He rubbed his thumb slowly along the edge of Pete’s shoulder-blade. Pete sighed and worked his knee further between Doyle’s legs.

Soon his time with Bodie would be like that picture in the school encyclopaedia, the one that showed the human share of earth’s history as the last six seconds in a day. At the age of eight, the image had sent him running home protesting, full of hurt tribal pride.

At thirty, the image sent a scalding heat to his eyes. He blinked rapidly, willing the tears back.

 _I’m not trying to forget him. Truly I’m not._ He didn’t know who he was protesting to. _Not trying to ... paint over it ... water it down. I’m not._ But the image persisted, accusing him. He closed his eyes tight.

The tape clicked off. He didn’t notice.

 _Why does this hurt so much? I don’t understand. I should be glad that I pleased Pete. That I haven’t been permanently screwed up._ His thumb jerked. Pete murmured in query, but Doyle didn’t respond. _Not like Bodie. No, not like Bodie. Do I wish I was? As penance? Do I feel as if I’ve broken a vow?_

“How about a coffee?”

Doyle started.

“Sorry. Did I wake you up or something?”

Doyle shook his head, and took a deep breath before speaking. “Yeah, I’d love a coffee.”

“Right. I’ll be back in a minute.” Pete shrugged into a deep-red towelling dressing gown. The light from the hallway dazzled Doyle briefly, and then the room was dark again. There was movement and the sound of running water next door, and then footsteps retreating down the stairs.

The bathroom was an astounding lime green, and very cold. Doyle did not linger. He nearly kicked over his beer can when he sat back on the bed, so he picked it up and put it next to the lamp. That prompted a hunt for the tube of K-Y, which was returned to its drawer.

He thought about putting another tape on, but it would just have been a gesture to show Pete he had manners, or at least _some_ social skills, and he couldn’t do it. He lay flat on his back. He thought he could hear voices beneath him, from the kitchen perhaps.

His eyes were still prickling, though no drops had formed or fallen, and he still didn’t know quite why. Some reaction was inevitable, of course, but this ... mourning? Over something he _knew_ he wanted? Over something his rational mind knew was a simple act of sex - an arrangement to please those areas where the nerve endings were densely packed. That was all it was.

Someone was coming slowly up the stairs, probably balancing mugs, milk and sugar. Doyle got up and opened the door, taking care to keep his naked body out of sight. It was Pete, and not a Dave.

“Thanks.” He put the tray on the desk. “Would you like a scotch or something? Well, irish, actually.”

“A small one, thanks.” Doyle glanced at the alarm clock. “I’ve got an early start, remember.” He sat on the bed again, then after a few seconds slid under the duvet. If Pete didn’t like dark brown why had he bought this duvet cover? Maybe it was a present.

“How could I forget?” The wardrobe doors creaked open, and Doyle saw that the brute doubled as a drinks cabinet.

Soon they were both settled in the bed. Doyle’s eyes were back under control, and he’d stopped trying to puzzle over his reaction. Wait and see if it happened again.

“Am I on your side of the bed?”

“Doesn’t matter. You need to be nearest the alarm clock anyway.”

It was all very polite. _Is this normal?_ He’d find out in time.

When they’d finished their drinks they got ready to sleep. Doyle borrowed Pete’s gown and went to the bathroom for the second time. When he came back the fan heater and angle-poise had been turned off and Pete was hovering over the alarm clock.

“What time do you need to be up?”

“Five thirty.” That would give ample time to go home and get changed.

They curled together in the dark. Doyle initiated a kiss that lasted some time, and was followed by others. At some point in the sequence Pete said, “Do you want to do this again?”

“Yes. If you do.”

“Of course. Tomorrow?”

They agreed on more of the same for the rest of the week, except for Wednesday (when Pete was visiting friends across town), and Friday, which would be spent at Doyle’s since he had Saturday off. Doyle fell asleep planning Friday’s meal.

* * * * *

By Saturday morning Doyle had decided that whatever was going on between them was probably going to last a while - months, anyway, rather than weeks. He wasn’t sure how Pete would describe him: “my boyfriend”? “my lover”? or just “Ray”? He still didn’t know what Pete’s surname was. It didn’t matter.

They saw less of one another over the week following, since Doyle was on lates. It wasn’t a week of total abstinence, however. Pete gave up some sleep on Monday and Thursday. It felt strange to Doyle, arriving at the house near midnight, being led straight to Pete’s room, having coffee with the dark-haired Dave in the morning after the other men had left. That week, he talked more to Dave than he did to Pete.

He was sure none of the women he’d known would have agreed to the arrangement, let alone suggested it. What would he have thought of a woman who did? But somehow that didn’t apply with Pete.

The feeling of strangeness was just surprise, mostly. Though he did remember those fleeting visits from Bodie, when they’d talked even less. Bodie hadn’t even stayed the night. What did it mean that, with Bodie, the proof of pure sexual need had depressed him, but with Pete it was a reason to be cheerful during a tiresome shift? Probably another of those things he’d never understand about Bodie and himself. He was starting to wonder again why he’d stuck it so long. But back then he hadn’t known that things could be this easy.

On Friday he went back to his flat after the end of the shift to get changed into his jeans, then drove to collect Pete, and then back to his flat again. He preferred not to let Pete see him in any part of his uniform. It wasn’t that distinctive, but it wasn’t his off-duty style at all, and it was better to remove any cause for questions. To change into his jeans at the station would have had MacKenzie asking where (and who) he was off to, and he didn’t want questions there, either. The extra trip home was still simpler than keeping Alison happy.

Saturday was Valentine’s day. Doyle had spent about half an hour - on and off - over the week wondering what to do about it. Nothing, was the eventual decision. He’d always ignored it anyway, except with Ann. But what if Pete had got him something? It didn’t seem likely, but people could surprise you.

After an energetic early-morning bout of sex, Pete declared it was his turn to get the coffee. He came back with orange juice as well.

“You don’t know what a relief it is to be out of the house today.”

“I don’t. Why?”

“Last year I couldn’t move for cards the size of fire-screens. And pink bears with enormous blue eyes. This year they’ve each told me separately about the ads

they’ve put in “The Guardian”. I did not want to be there when they read them.”

“You’re not romantic at all, are you?”

Pete shrugged. “I have my moments. I just don’t like being manipulated. I’ll choose my own time, thank you very much.”

“I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

“Well, what else is it but a marketing scheme? To keep the card companies going between Christmas and Easter.” A pause, then, matter of factly, “You weren’t expecting anything, were you?”

“Nah.”

“Thought not. You take sex too seriously to want to dress it up with a stuffed satin heart.”

“Uh.” _Is that how he sees me?_ He wanted to ask Pete if he’d ever been in love, but he couldn’t afford to have the question turned back on himself. Had Pete ever felt that need to make a fool of himself, to give everything he had to another person?

Like he had with Bodie. Not that he’d given Bodie a Valentine’s card - or anything much. The man he’d said (to himself) that he’d kill for ... or die for. How had he shown it? Had Bodie even known?

He shook his head slightly. This was not the time for a wallow. He offered Pete more coffee, and then they proceeded to plan the rest of the day.

* * * * *

To Doyle’s surprise the week of nights was the most difficult of all. He and Bodie had rarely tried to meet in the evenings before the shift, having been put off by a series of disappointments in the early days. There were good memories, though, of coming home in the morning to a warm, occupied bed - not possible with Pete, since they hadn’t exchanged door keys.

Pete was delighted with the night shift, since it meant they could meet in the evenings, and he didn’t get woken by Doyle leaving in the morning. Doyle could see those advantages, but they didn’t count much with him. After the second night, when he was sure the unease was not going to fade, he tried to explain it to Pete. It was their first serious failure to communicate.

“What? Do you mean you’re frightened they’re going to be able to tell you’ve just been fucked? Do they have spot checks, or something? ‘cos I can tell you you don’t have a neon sign on your forehead.”

“It’s not that. It’s nothing to do with them. At work. It’s just me. I just don’t feel comfortable about it.”

A shrug. “It’s never bothered me. I think it’s fun. And you weren’t worrying on my behalf last week.”

“I’m glad it’s fun for you. But it isn’t for me. It makes me feel ... self-conscious ... distracted. I can’t -“

“It just makes you feel gay. That’s all. I don’t think you feel happy with that. You _are_ frightened they can tell. You must have lied through your teeth to get through the vetting at that place. That’s why you feel self-conscious. It’s guilt. And I think it’s more guilt about being gay than guilt about pretending to be straight.”

Doyle would happily have walked out. He thought this was a ridiculous over-reaction, but he didn’t have a good answer. How on earth was he supposed to prove himself? He didn’t _have_ a track record. He took a deep, exasperated breath. “I don’t understand why you’re so upset about this. I was just trying to be honest.”

“It upsets me to see people locking themselves in the closet. Your job gives me the creeps.”

“And I suppose you start every maths class with a speech for gay rights?”

“I don’t lie. I won’t pretend to be a hero, but I don’t lie. You do. Don’t you?”

Doyle sighed, and tilted his head back to stare at the living-room ceiling. If only the Daves would come home early and kill this discussion.

“Don’t you?”

Doyle raised his head suddenly. “Are you telling me to piss off, or something?”

“No. Just trying to be honest.”

That sounded familiar, but he didn’t know why. “Oh _God_.” He opened his mouth to speak, then changed his mind, held the breath he’d taken, and then let it out slowly. “Look, why don’t we have the rest of the fruit salad, and then try this again?”

“You’re not going to change your mind, are you?”

“Not in the foreseeable future, no.”

“And you want to ... stay pure when you’re on nights?”

“Yes.” Trying to keep control of his temper.

“Hmm.” Pause. “Well, I suppose there’s not a lot I can do about it.” Pause. “And it’s only one week in three.” Shorter pause. “But I think there’s a lot you’re not dealing with.”

“And I’m sure you won’t let me forget that. So. What do we do for the rest of the week?”

“Jigsaw puzzles? Or we could re-arrange my sock drawer.”

 _Christ._ Bring back Bodie and his abandoned-puppy routine. Doyle hadn’t known when he was well off. “Maybe we should just take a complete break when I’m on nights. Save it all up for my long weekly leave.”

A slow nod. “Yeah, OK. We’ll just meet at Eva’s class, then.”

“Yeah. We could go out for a meal afterwards or something.”

Another, faster nod. Then, with curiosity, “How do you usually deal with nights? If it’s always bothered you like this. Or has no one else complained?”

Doyle swallowed, and ad-libbed while his pulse accelerated. “Well, since ...”

Pete waited, then assisted. “Your friend of the dusty toothbrush?”

“Yes. Well, since then it’s just been one-offs, really. On my weekly leave. No one’s had to put up with the shifts.”

“What about him?”

Sigh. “It didn’t help.”

* * * * *

An hour later, Doyle paused in the act of putting his jacket on. “What _shall_ we do this weekend? We never decided.”

“Hmm. When will you be conscious?”

“Midday Saturday.”

“Well ... there’s videos. Or - oh yeah - there’s a group meeting here Saturday evening and then going to “Stallions”. Dave’s friends and stuff. We usually go once a month. Dave invited you, actually. I’d forgotten.”

“D’you want to go?”

“Yeah.”

“Right. Videos on Sunday then?”

“OK. Call when you get up on Saturday, and we’ll sort the details out.”

Doyle nodded, fished out his car keys, and left. Every other time they’d kissed goodbye, but Doyle had made no move since he thought it might start the argument again.

* * * * *

The remaining shifts of the week _were_ easier for Doyle. His brain always needed _some_ hobby for the emptiest hours of the night, but it now engaged in fierce arguments with Pete, and had forgotten its earlier obsession with the lingering sensations from Doyle’s body, which it had examined over and over, leeching away any warmth and leaving Doyle feeling greasy and exposed. Compared with that, the arguments were entertaining.

 _“I did not lie to get this job. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”_ He meant his police job. He’d forgotten, in his determination to clear himself, that Pete’s accusations had been aimed at the fictional Raymond Doyle.

* * * * *

He arrived at the house early on Saturday evening. The door was opened by Dave the red-head, who sat him down and got him a drink. Pete and the other Dave waved a greeting from the door of the kitchen. Doyle had been expecting to be led upstairs to Pete’s room as soon as he stepped inside, and it took him some minutes to switch to small-talk mode. It would be over eight hours before he was alone in a room with Pete.

Over dinner Doyle tried to ask most of the questions, as a way to avoid answering any. Dave the red-head turned out to be a science teacher at a school in Acton. The other Dave worked part-time in a second-hand record shop, and part-time in a pub in Camden. Neither was from London. They talked about music and pubs for most of the meal. Doyle and Dave the teacher did the washing up.

The other men arrived between nine and ten. First was Tim, then Keith and Julian, and finally Mark. Tim and Mark taught at Dave’s school. Keith had been at training college with Dave and Pete, but had left teaching almost immediately, and was working in a bookshop. Julian was unemployed. Doyle had wondered how Pete would introduce him, but it was simply as “Ray”.

They all sat around drinking till ten thirty, catching up on news which meant nothing to Doyle. Pete sat next to him and explained the background occasionally. Doyle’s gaze kept swinging round to Mark, then away when he realised he was staring - no one else seemed to notice. Mark wasn’t a dead ringer for Bodie, but he was the closest Doyle had seen so far. It was the muscles, really. And the self-confidence. Mark reminded him of his first sight of Bodie.

The differences didn’t spoil the effect for Doyle. He noted them, but they just sharpened his memories of Bodie. Taller. Hair longer and nearly straight, and parted to the side. Face longer and straighter too, and very composed. A smile that barely disturbed his features. Not like the riot of curves that took over Bodie’s face in moments of affection or simple amusement.

Maybe the differences made it bearable, reduced his reaction to lust. If it really _had_ been Bodie, or Bodie’s double, Doyle would have been crouched behind the sofa, hyperventilating. He was dimly aware of this fact.

* * * * *

They took the tube to Charing Cross, and then walked back up Charing Cross Road, arriving at the club shortly after eleven. The next few hours became a jumble in Doyle’s mind. He remembered dancing with Pete, Mark, Tim, the dark Dave and a blond man whose name he never learnt. He remembered standing against a wall kissing Pete. He remembered returning from the toilets in a state of mild shock. He remembered samples from shouted conversations.

“What does Mark teach? Is it P.E. or something?”

Pete laughed. “No. Geography. He’s a geologist.”

“Oh.” Undisguised surprise. Sobriety was just a theory by that stage. “He looks very fit.”

A snort. “He spends all of his free time at the “Y”. He’d collapse if he had to run a mile. Well, maybe not. He goes mountaineering. But it’s mostly for show.”

“You don’t like him?”

A shrug. “He’s OK. Don’t have a lot to say to him. Still thinks he’s head boy at his public school. When he joins the human race he’ll be fine. I mean ...” - a disbelieving laugh - “... he told me once he’d thought of joining the police. Sent off for the application forms and everything. I think he only changed his mind when he realised he’d have to mix with the working classes.” A long swallow of beer. “He _has_ improved since then. Why? You fancy him, don’t you?”

“No, not really. I just -“

“Oh, come on, Ray. You ‘aven’t been subtle.”

“Yeah, OK, I do. But don’t worry, I’m not going to do anything about it.”

“Why not?” Genuine puzzlement. “He’s not going to say no.”

Doyle stared, speechless. This was outside his experience.

“Well, he isn’t. Why hang about? He’s got a gorgeous prick, I’ll say that for him.”

“How do you know?”

“How do you think? _Honestly_ , Ray!”

“How long were you ...?”

Pete glanced at his watch. “About ten hours, I guess. Time it, will you? Dave’s keeping the score. I think the record is two days. Why are you acting so surprised? I thought you liked variety yourself.”

Doyle’s brain did some hard work. “I do. I’m just -“ He shrugged. “- not used to seeing the bloke again afterwards. Knowing who he goes on to next.”

“Ah. The old-fashioned type. The pre-Wolfenden type.”

“What?”

“It’s a sign of fear, you know. Not allowing yourself any gay friends.”

“Oh, not that again. Give it a rest.”

“Just this once. Since it’s your weekly leave. So, when are you going to make your move?”

Doyle looked around the room. Mark was nowhere in sight. “When I can find him again, I suppose.”

“I think he’s gone. He’s usually scored by this time.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll find his phone number for you,” said Pete, almost gently, then he took Doyle’s hand and led him onto the dance floor.

* * * * *

Later - or was it earlier? - he’d bought a round for Pete, Keith and Julian. When he elbowed his way back with the glasses, he found the three men looking very serious and all staring in the same direction.

“What’s going on?”

Keith pointed through the flashing lights. “We reckon that one’s a pretty policeman. The slim one in the cream jumper. He seems keen enough, but he’s just not giving the right messages.”

Doyle identified the jumper. The man was half turned-away, and Doyle couldn’t judge the prettiness or the messages.

“What do you mean?”

“Vice squad, Ray,” said Pete with exaggerated patience. “Hadn’t you heard they’d been doing the clubs?”

He hadn’t. Vice’s attempts to clean up the queers were considered such a normal, tedious part of police work that they provoked almost no discussion. “So is he taking down descriptions and names or something?”

“It’s called entrapment. You talk to him. You ask him back to your place. He leads you out of the club and around the corner to the car. You go to jail.” Pete sounded almost bored, as if he’d recited the list hundred of times.

“Oh.” The man had turned back. He was very good looking - not exactly Doyle’s type, but then Pete wasn’t his ideal either. Doyle swallowed. One quick way to ruin your life. To himself he said, “They’re probably trying to get their arrest figures up. It’s a guaranteed result.”

Pete heard him. “It’s fucking victimisation, that’s what it is. This isn’t even a public place. Not like a lavatory. They can’t even claim they’re protecting the general public. It’s not as if they get complaints from outraged straights who’ve come in here all unsuspecting of a Saturday night and then - horror of horrors! - found themselves chatted up by a man. There’s no excuse.”

“They don’t need an excuse,” said Julian. “They’re fascists.”

Pete and Keith nodded. Doyle buried his face in his beer-glass.

“Well, that goes without saying -“ Mercifully, at that point the music changed, and gave Doyle a chance to interrupt Pete. By the time they stopped for a rest, the man in the cream jumper was nowhere to be seen, and the subject was not re-opened.

* * * * *

Shortly before three in the morning Pete decided it was time to go, and he collected the remaining members of the group, which had shrunk to six - Tim had taken his leave over an hour earlier. Keith and Julian got one taxi, and the other four got another.

At half past three Doyle was finally alone with Pete.

“Are you tired?” Pete asked.

Doyle shook his head.

“Thought not. It’s the middle of your shift, isn’t it?”

“What about you?”

Pete stretched extravagantly against the pillow. “Just tired enough to fall fast asleep afterwards.”

Doyle drew the covers back and let his fingers drift through the thick hair on Pete’s chest. “Something gentle, then.”

“Mmm. Something gentle.” Pete slipped further down on the bed and gathered Doyle close for a kiss.

Afterwards, Doyle held the unconscious Pete, and listened to the sounds from next door. The Daves had not gone for gentle. He fitted an image to every creak and groan, and his cock started to harden again. He tried to ignore it, and the Daves finished before that became impossible.

He was starting to sober up, and his brain felt itchy, as if the receding alcohol was leaving a crusty tide-mark. It was obvious he was not going to slip gracefully into sleep. Anyway, the night had left him with a lot to think about.

He’d thought he would feel different - his first time in a gay nightclub. The idea had stood for so much. Hard to imagine, really, that something so ... ordinary ... could have sparked off one of their worst arguments. He shivered, remembering.

_What would he have said if he’d seen me tonight? What would he have done?_

They were posed as rhetorical questions, but after two tense heartbeats he realised that he simply couldn’t imagine Bodie’s reaction, couldn’t summon any images of the man except the ones he’d actually seen. He frowned, and the clubbing became unimportant.

_I can’t picture him when I want to. Have I forgotten, already, what he really looked like? No photographs. I suppose it must fade._

_I don’t even dream about him. There was the dream, though, about the ... hotel, when I was in Manchester. Looking for him. But I didn’t find him._

_Feel. I can bring back the feel of him when I want to. Of bits of him. Right now - the brush of his hair against my palm, wrong-way, so it fights and skitters, and then right-way, so smooth. His hand on my stomach. Just the weight of it, and the warmth. But I can’t see it. Or I can almost see the hand, but it fades off to blackness at the wrist._

_But I knew him so well. It must be there somewhere. Try. Try to imagine him at this moment._

_He’s asleep in bed. I know the bedroom. That’s wood and wool and cotton. That doesn’t change._

_I can see the bedroom. It’s all greys and black, light too dim to show colours. The curtains are open, though. The moonlight’s shining on the railings of the balcony, shining straight onto the bed. He’s lying on his side, facing the window._

_He looks so young._

Doyle’s thudding heartbeat seemed to disturb Pete, who flexed, digging his knee painfully into the meat of Doyle’s thigh, and then grunted and rolled away. After a deep sigh he was still again. Doyle unclenched his teeth and reached down to soothe the long muscle. When it had stopped complaining, he turned onto his side, moving further away from Pete.

The image of the moonlit bedroom had gone. He didn’t try to get it back. _Sleep. I want to sleep. It’s been a long day. A lot to take in._ Really, there had been. Thinking about what he’d packed into the last 24 hours, he finally started to feel tired.

 _Tomorrow will be easier. Get Pete back to my place. Watch something mindless. Calm him down. I suppose I can see why he gets angry. I wish I could tell him how new I am to all of this. I think he’d be kinder then. The way things are he thinks I don’t give a shit. A delinquent throwing ink-balls from the back of the class._ He smiled, able to visualise that with no trouble. It made him less angry with Pete.

He thought about school and teachers. About his last year at school. _Now where did I sit? Third desk back, by the window. Spent hours peeling paint off that radiator. Always had some stuck underneath my nails. And who sat in front of me? Oh, yes ..._ Halfway round the class, and he was asleep.

* * * * *

On Monday morning he gave Pete a lift to school.

“See you at the Arts Centre.”

Pete hadn’t volunteered Mark’s phone number on Sunday, and Doyle hadn’t decided how to ask for it. What would he say to Mark anyway? _Wanna fuck?_ Who knows? Maybe that counted as slick patter.

Mid-morning he met Woods for a game of squash. It was the third time they’d played, though the first in the middle of weekly leave. Woods certainly provided the speed and challenge that Doyle had been looking for in taking up the sport again. The sweat it produced didn’t feel clean, though - it was soured by his murderous impulses towards his opponent. How did Woods do it? They were evenly matched, but every point lost to Woods hurt like ten. The man must have triumphal marches piped continuously into his brain.

It was bloody useless as a way to relax, but Doyle couldn’t let go. _Next time. Next time he won’t get to me._

They had a swift pint in the bar afterwards. With his hair wet from the shower, radiating heat from every inch of bare skin, Woods was the king rat to the life - his species’ hope for world domination. He talked about himself. About his reactions to the few women in the bar. About the last week’s quota of fools, amateurs and villains who’d thought they could get the better of PC Woods and had learnt the hard way. It seemed he and his life should be the envy of all.

Doyle found this almost more exhausting than the time on the court. A year ago he might just have thought that Woods was full of himself and consequently very boring. A year ago he hadn’t met Ruth Garrett. Now he thought, _Why is he so frightened of losing? Why does everything have to be a confrontation? He must feel as if he’s under seige._

Sometimes he thought he must have imagined those seconds at the Christmas party after all. The Woods he was getting to know would never have dropped his defences like that, no matter how drunk. But how much use were those defences when his reasons for telling the stories were so obvious? They were to Doyle now, anyway, but to everyone else ...? Woods was the hero of the relief. Wasn’t he?

 _Was I ever like that?_ He tried to be honest. _Well ... I can match stories with the best of them, I suppose. Never been one to run myself down. But I don’t ... take from other people the way he does. I think he sees the public as the enemy. Sort of. To control. Chaos, Garrett said. Not to help. I’ve never thought that. Never._

_* * * * *_

He was sorting away his weekly shopping when the ‘phone rang.

“Hello.”

“Can I speak to Ray, please?”

“Speaking.”

“Oh, hi, Ray. It’s Mark. Dave gave me your number. Said you wanted to meet.”

“Uh.” Beyond that Doyle was silent as he tried to work out who must have said what to whom, and when.

“Did he get it wrong?”

“No. Sorry. I just didn’t expect to hear from you.”

“How about tonight, then?”

“I’m meeting Pete.”

“Can’t you cancel?”

God, it was tempting. He’d already started wondering about that “gorgeous prick”. “I can’t get a message to him in time.”

“Dave’ll tell him. Is he going home after school?”

“Yeah, I think so. He’s eating first, anyway.”

“Then Dave’ll tell him.”

Pause. “He’s gonna be pissed off.”

“No, not Pete. Who do you think gave Dave your number?”

A shorter pause. “OK. Your place or mine?”

“Mine. Eight o’clock?”

“What’s your address?” It was in Camden, north-west of the Arts Centre. “Great. See you then.”

As he put the ‘phone down, Doyle let out his breath in a near-whistle.

_I thought it would be weeks. Weeks for Pete to give me his number. Then weeks to wait for the right day. Thought he might not even be interested. God, am I ready for this?_

Ready for what, though? _Sex. Good, plain sex. That’s all. With a man I wanted to fuck the moment I saw him. How ready do you have to be, after all?_

Put it like that, and set your imagination going, and you discover that you can be _too_ ready. Doyle took a luke-warm shower, and tried to think of a way to distract himself until eight. For the first time that year, going shooting seemed like a good idea. Range should be quiet. No one from the team, anyway. If he was still in the slump ... Well, who was to know?

* * * * *

It turned out that he had escaped from the slump. He was team material again, if he ever felt like going back. He would eventually. He’d bump into Tony, and Tony would talk him into it.

In the meantime he’d rediscovered a solitary hobby that let him shut out everything else for a while. He felt he had a good mix, with the running and the squash. The reading had lapsed. And the hours in the caffs. And drinking with the lads. Well ... Pete didn’t leave him much time. He didn’t miss any of that really.

Except the computer. He didn’t miss Garrett - barely thought of her unless goaded by Woods - but he did miss her computer. The shooting had reminded him, though not because of any stupid gun-slinger arcade game. He’d almost forgotten the pleasures of total concentration.

The drive back from the range was a crawl through the rush-hour, but he felt no impatience. He was home with enough time for a shower and a sandwich, and a ‘phone call to Pete, who had got the message, and sounded pleased, if anything. Doyle shrugged, accepting his good fortune, and asked what time he should arrive the next evening. He left for Mark’s at half past seven, smiling with confident anticipation.

By eight o’clock on Tuesday morning he was back in his own flat, curiosity satisfied, and lust burnt off, at least for the day - it would return by night, as if condensing from the air.

He didn’t know if they would meet again, except at those monthly outings to “Stallions”. He’d asked. Mark hadn’t really answered, just delivered a speech about “not reading the same book twice”. It sounded to Doyle like something that someone else had written for him, since he wasn’t as confident when forced to ad lib, and there wasn’t a book in his flat apart from text books.

“I have books that I return to again and again,” Doyle had replied, over the breakfast of coffee and yoghurt. “I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve read them.”

“Well ... yes, of course, but you don’t re-read them the next day, do you? You need a gap to ... to make it seem like you’re reading it for the first time. No matter how much you enjoyed it.”

Doyle shrugged, and then nodded in concession. Why fish for insults? The man was trying to be tactful, in his pompous way, maybe even making a special effort - because he certainly _had_ enjoyed it. Those who disappointed doubtless did not get to stay for breakfast.

 _It’s probably just as well,_ he thought as he sat down carefully in his armchair. _Pete’s right about the head-boy thing. And we were running out of things to talk about just after a couple of hours. But ..._ His skin heated suddenly. _Never again?_

 _He must make exceptions. Surely. Not the next day, of course, but sometime?_ He sighed, and quirked the side of his mouth. _Best to assume he doesn’t. I don’t need another excuse to mope._

It had been so good. Not because of any technical wizardry - Pete was probably more skilled and sensitive than Mark - but because Mark’s body made Doyle dizzy with excitement. It was as if he’d been programmed - by Bodie? or by something even beyond Bodie? How could he tell? This was not a question that would yield to reason.

And he wasn’t identical to Bodie. Of course he wasn’t. His legs were longer - thigh muscles more curve and less bulk. Muscles generally better defined, showing hours of careful work. Slightly more hair. The area around his nipples was bare, but his breast-bone was picked out with an even shadowing.

Just as pale, though. And the cock so similar, and surrounded by thick black hair. Gorgeous, indeed. How could anyone see that and not want to possess it, be possessed by it? He couldn’t imagine. At his first sight of it - in Mark’s black-and-cream sitting room that had rocks on the shelves instead of books - he’d dropped instantly to his knees, unable to think of anything except making it hard and even more beautiful, making it come.

His bottom was beautiful too, but it had provoked simple admiration in Doyle, and not the fevered compulsion to devour and own. He hadn’t asked to fuck it, wouldn’t have felt deprived or slighted if it hadn’t been offered, as it had last thing at night.

Thinking about it now, back home, he decided that Mark had probably been feeling lazy after his previous hard work. Not that he’d been indifferent, but there had been more relaxed acquiescence than need. And it had been obvious by that stage that Doyle had need enough for both of them. His whole-hearted exertion had relaxed the grip of need to the point of comfort, and he’d fallen asleep quickly, with no comparisons, or thoughts of betrayal.

No, it was probably just as well there wouldn’t be a repeat. It would have worn him to a frazzle within a month.

He went back to the range in the afternoon, to experience that blankness of concentration again. He saw Salmon as he was leaving, but managed to avoid him. Knowing Salmon he would probably have found some way of introducing his favourite topic - James Anderton - which would have been dangerous (to Doyle), who was no longer in the state of listless defeat he’d been in in Manchester.

He took a bottle of wine to Pete’s, though he wasn’t sure what Pete had planned. The Daves were installed in front of the TV as usual. Doyle sat in the armchair by the window while Pete went to open the wine.

“So how’d it go?” asked Dave the teacher.

Doyle had been staring absently at the screen. He turned round to find Dave looking at him, and realised the question had been for him. “What?”

“Mark, what else?”

“Oh. Uh.” _Christ, what sort of details did he want?_ After a year and a half of insistence on total secrecy Doyle had lost his perspective on gossip. He hadn’t been panicked by similar questions from Mike back in the days when he was straight. “Well, the two day record stands.”

The Daves nodded, unsurprised. The barman said, “I think it’ll only be broken when he manages to clone himself. He’s got strange taste.”

Pete sat on the arm of the chair and handed over a glass. “It’s not so strange. He just likes them beefy. When I first came to town I thought that was practically compulsory.”

“I think it’s boring.”

“I know you do,” said his lover, the teacher. “You’re the only one here who hasn’t had sex with him.”

The barman snorted. “I’m the only person I _know_ who hasn’t.”

Pete said to Doyle, “You should try and get Mark into your club. From the sound of it it’s wall-to-wall, totally-butch muscle. He’d be your friend for life.”

Doyle raised an eyebrow. “I couldn’t risk it.”

“What? Having him as a friend for life, or having him disgrace you in the showers?” Pete was smiling. Doyle didn’t answer.

* * * * *

Later, in Pete’s room, Doyle tried to apologise seriously for standing him up.

Pete just shrugged. “I was expecting it, pretty well. Though I didn’t think he’d move quite that quickly. Still, why wait? I’d have done the same. I have, loads of times.”

Doyle looked at him curiously. “Are you seeing anyone else at the moment? I mean, since -“

“Nah. Haven’t been looking. Do you want to hear about it if I do?”

“Dunno.” He grinned. “Depends how well you tell it.”

“Yeah. Anyway, how _did_ it go?”

Doyle pulled a face. “Exhausting.”

“Hmm.” Pause. “You like them beefy yourself, don’t you?”

Doyle reddened, though it wasn’t visible in the dimly lit room. He felt as if Pete had just read the programme that had been running in him the night before. “Well, I wouldn’t say no. But I’m not obsessed or anything. I like all sorts.”

“What _are_ they like at the club?”

“Oh, you had it word for word.”

It didn’t feel like a comedown, being back in bed with Pete. He had been worried that it might - that it wouldn’t be enough any more.

Pete made a point of examining his anus, commenting on the redness, asking how tender it felt. This excited both of them, and Pete built on it, creating a game in which he decided (reluctantly) that Doyle was too sore to be fucked that night, and so parted his own legs (as a great favour), and directed the proceedings until the very end. Once again, Doyle fell asleep immediately and peacefully.

By morning he had found the energy to be surprised (at himself _and_ Pete). The surprise flared at odd moments throughout his shift, but it wasn’t until he took himself off to the Heath for a run in the afternoon that he got beyond that first reaction. And instead of thinking about himself and Pete, he thought mostly of Bodie, and it didn’t occur to him to be surprised by that.

With Bodie, everything of the past two nights would have been unthinkable. The time they’d spent in other beds was never (willingly) spoken of, let alone used as an aphrodisiac like that. The one time he _had_ reacted the day after ... One of his ugliest moments. Maybe a warning of what they would have become.

He wondered how Pete would have coped with Bodie - if he’d met him at a party or something. _Maybe better than I did_. Pete would either have chucked him out at the first sign of nonsense, or stuck with it for the good sex - and no agonising about jealousy or lack of it. Of course Pete wouldn’t have put up with CI5 for a second, but if you could forget that ...

Maybe the situation back then hadn’t been so impossible. Not always. Another pair might have dealt with it. Maybe Pete would have side-stepped the arguments. Maybe Pete would have accepted without question the idea that Bodie couldn’t be fucked - _It’s part of the image and I’m humouring him._ Pete wouldn’t have had any stupid doubts about the workings of Bodie’s mind, would have found him simply generous, handsome and sexy, wouldn’t have driven Bodie to make that disastrous offer of his body.

Yes, another pair would have done better. Would have managed a swift, painless end, or no end at all. Between the two of them they’d managed it about as badly as they could. That had to say _something_ about what they meant to one another.

This wasn’t the first time he’d arrived at this idea, although this was a new path to it. He’d got here too, just before the end, thinking about Bodie’s all-or-nothing personality, and the way it swung his own mood around. He thought he’d said something like that in the letter, though he couldn’t remember it clearly any more.

Back then he’d thought only about himself, about _his_ reaction to Bodie. But now, imagining Pete in his place, he realised that it had gone both ways.

He remembered Bodie as he’d first seen him: a pair of combat boots, sand clogging the eyelets; square, roughened hands holding a rifle with the ease of long acquaintance, then, empty, reaching towards him; a crooked smile that, even then, he’d seen as reassurance, not as gloating. A nostalgia for that Bodie had sent him to Mark’s bed.

Then, he remembered him as he’d last seen him.

He stopped running, walked for four or five paces, then stood, eyes lowered to the tarmac path, but not seeing it. “ _I_ did that.” It was a whisper.

It was true. He hadn’t seen it before.

Not all of it was his fault, no more than his mood-swings were Bodie’s. He still didn’t believe that it was in his power (or in any man’s) to make Bodie truly happy and whole.

But he had been mean-spirited. He saw that now, and felt ashamed, remembering how he’d been content to accept Bodie’s admiration and attention as his due, with no thought of returning them. And he was the one with spirit to spare, not like Bodie.

He wandered off the path, and meandered among the trees.

_He owed me. That’s what I thought. I said I’d forgiven him when I stopped hating him, but I hadn’t. He had to pay me back. For everything. For the rape, at first, and then for everything else that hurt. The secrecy. The nightmares. The night in Brijah taken away forever. It was all his fault._

_Did he know I felt like that? I think he did. I think he thought it was all his fault too. Or else he would have told me to stop being so childish and selfish. Told me to make an effort._

_But he never did criticise me, except ... at the end. Not even to joke or tease. I never stopped needling him, though. And he accepted it. Just took it inside and got more and more desperate, and more and more strange. And I kept on telling him he was stupid and he was doing everything wrong._

He stopped and leaned back against a tree. The bark caught at the fabric of his tracksuit, and dug into his shoulder-blades. He barely noticed the discomfort.

_Yes, Pete would have done better - if they didn’t hate one another on sight. He’s generous with his praise, same as Bodie. He would have said the things that should have been said, wouldn’t have held them back because ... somehow ... Bodie couldn’t make the world perfect. And if Pete did criticise him, it would have been about things he could change, things he could argue back about._

He sighed, and rolled the back of his head against the tree-trunk. He was right, Pete _was_ generous with his praise, and he’d never thought to return it. Had he always been this much of a miser? He tried to remember.

His first thought was, _I was OK with women. Lots of compliments. Maybe I just feel awkward with men, feel it’s ... soppy._ But as he reviewed his generosity with women, he reluctantly realised that all of the scenes were from the pub, or the restaurant, or the party - none from the bedroom. _Chat-up lines. They got me what I wanted and then ... no need to make the effort any more._ The only difference with men was that, so far, he hadn’t had to make much effort.

 _So. I’ve always been like this._ He felt cold, and hunched, inside. He jammed his hands in his pockets, and stared down at the body that he obviously thought so much of.

_But I thought I was a nice guy. Hot-tempered, yeah. Nobody’s sucker. But no ... real faults._

_I mean, fourteen years service to the community. Helping people every day, round the clock. Listening to them for hours on end. Checking they’re OK afterwards. Would I do that if I was as selfish as all that?_

_I like people. I get on with people. That’s why I’m a copper, after all. That’s why they asked me to tutor probationers. I must be ... getting this out of proportion._

_Pete hasn’t complained. No one else has complained. Maybe I just don’t ... say it in words, but they know anyway. Maybe Bodie knew after all. I hope so._

With an impatient sigh he levered himself away from the tree, which tugged at his hair and clothes before releasing him. _God, even with Bodie gone I can still agonise with the best of them. I bet no one else gets themselves into this state over a bit of mildly kinky sex. I’ve still got to get him out of my system. Probably take as long as it took working him in. Great. Another year of this._

He ran his hands through his hair, turned in the direction of home, and started running again.

* * * * *

At some point in that week of early shift, Doyle realised that it had been a month since Marion’s party. He didn’t mention it to Pete, although they saw each other most days of the week.

The next week, of lates, was similar to the previous one, over three weeks before. On Thursday morning, Doyle was sitting at the dining table, taking his time over coffee with Dave. Without any lead-in, Dave said, “Do you want to fuck?”

Doyle jerked, and coffee splashed onto his jeans. “What about Dave?”

“Yeah, he’d want to too if he was here.”

“No, I mea-“ It was obvious what he’d meant. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Dave shrugged. “Shame.” He drained his coffee. “You wouldn’t say no if it was Mark, would you?”

What was he supposed to say to that? He lifted a hand to indicate ignorance and indecision.

“You _do_ like the body-builder type, don’t you? Dave said Mark could hardly keep his eyes open the next day.”

“Well, that’s Pete’s theory, anyway.” He leaned back in his chair, extravagantly relaxed.

“Hmm, yeah. He reckons you’ve got a thing for one of the blokes at your work. Some uptight muscle-man who gave you a hard time.”

Doyle’s eyes were not hostile, but they were very, very cold. “Well, he’s a romantic, isn’t he? Gotta have the tragic past. I’d be mad to try it on with anyone at work.”

“From the sounds of things, yeah. Why don’t you get a normal job? Or do you like the danger? Is it full of closet cases?”

Doyle sighed heavily. “The money, that’s why. It’s nowhere near as dramatic as you’re making out. I wish Pete would shut up about it.”

“Oh, he’ll get bored after a while. He always does.”

* * * * *

On Friday night, during the drive to his flat, Doyle gave Pete a brief description of Thursday’s events, omitting the discussion about the club.

“Yeah, he told me,” said Pete indifferently.

“This happens all the time, does it?”

“Often enough. I’d told him not to bother but he wouldn’t listen. I can usually guess who’s going to go for it.”

Doyle shook his head in incomprehension, and said nothing.

* * * * *

As arranged, they saw nothing of one another when he was on nights, except on Monday, which was the last day of the shift. Doyle found he was actually grateful to the shift system for forcing the break on him. It wasn’t that he was fed up with Pete or the sex or anything like that, but it was good to spend a whole week sleeping in his own bed, having time to think.

Work was giving no problems. He’d been right in thinking that the stint in the car would be easier. He didn’t _need_ it any more, though - his life seemed to be coming together of its own accord. He was starting to look forward to mid-April, and his new probationer.

What would he be like? Or she? Most of them were typical adolescents: over-confident in some areas, lost in others, personalities just starting to set. Socially, they weren’t worth talking to for several months. He’d steer them towards the steadier members of the drinking set and let them get on with it.

Garrett was the only one who’d really presented a challenge, that he could remember - a challenge he hadn’t met very well. Thinking about it, nearly a year since he’d first met her, he realised that he’d treated her differently all the way along the line. It was no wonder the rumours had started.

Of course, he’d thought before, _I put myself out for her. I cooked her meals, and look what happened._ But at the moment he wasn’t feeling bitter about her. He’d invited her round to dinner all those times, not out of charity, but because he liked talking to her. He’d probably learnt as much from her as she had from him - about computers, about the great mixture of things she read, about feeling at odds with the force, about stroppy women.

He wasn’t actively missing her - if she was around now she’d probably still be ignoring him as she had in her last few months - but he was, finally, glad he’d met her. The chances of meeting another like her were slim. In comparison, his next probationer would be as dull as cardboard.

* * * * *

The long weekly leave that followed was also spent mostly at his own flat. The four days were all weekdays, so he didn’t see much more of Pete than if he’d been on earlies. They watched videos - which Pete still regarded as partly magical - and in the mornings Doyle drove him to work. During the day Doyle went shooting or running, and killed some hours in local caffs.

Compared with the last long break, which had included “Stallions” and the night at Mark’s, it was very quiet. The exception was Thursday night - or rather, early Friday morning.

They’d gone to bed, had gentle, relaxing sex, then talked until they fell asleep. Some hours later, Doyle was shaken awake by someone he couldn’t see. He protested for several seconds until he woke up properly and recognised Pete’s voice. He grunted, and then struggled up to turn on the bedside light.

“What’s wrong?” he said croakily, blinking in the light.

“You tell _me_. You were thrashing around, and then you started moaning. Scared me.”

“Oh.” His face went blank while he tried to remember, then crumpled when he succeeded. “Oh. Sorry I woke you up. It was just a nightmare.”

“Want to tell me about it?”

He shook his head. “It was just about being chased. I get it sometimes. Don’t worry about it. Let’s go back to sleep.” He turned the light off, and they lay down again, their arms around each other. Pete was snoring gently within minutes.

There had been no chase.

It had been a strange dream, which Pete would have misunderstood completely if Doyle had recounted it.

There had been a little whitewashed room, with a narrow bed. A table by the bed, with a battered money-belt on it, and a pile of loose change, next to a round, wrapped soap, and two vials, like test-tubes, stoppered with small corks. Against the wall were two sailor’s duffel-bags, half-full, and leaning drunkenly against one another. Doyle hadn’t even known that he’d noticed those details at the time. Amazing what the mind stores away.

The dream had started, as far as he could remember, with the naked man on the bed rolling onto his stomach, not to hide his face, but to reveal his strong, well-shaped buttocks. Doyle hadn’t been in the room at first, or he’d been up in the ceiling, where everything had looked very small. But then he’d been standing by the bed, reaching down to part the buttocks, tweaking the hair between them.

He’d been naked. Fully erect. Although there had been no sexual feeling in the dream. His erection might have been something inanimate glued between his legs. There had been no question about what to do with it, though. He remembered banging his elbow against the rough wall beside the bed as he’d yanked the cork from the vial.

He’d known from the beginning that it wasn’t Bodie, that it was Mark. He hadn’t had to be careful, hadn’t had to make every touch a gentling and a promise. He’d used the oil and climbed on, and sometime later it was finished, and he was sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed, facing Mark, who was leaning back against the pillow. They were both drinking coffee.

There was a pile of books, now, on the table by the bed. Mark picked them up and handed them over. “Here. Get rid of these. I’m not going to read them again.” They were the books on polar exploration, stacked exactly as he’d stacked them on the dining room table before throwing them out. Against his thumb he could feel the creases in the spine of a thick paperback. Bodie’s Christmas present was at the bottom, his palm was cupped around it. He wanted to open it and read the message on the first page, but he couldn’t. He just knew that he couldn’t.

Pete had woken him then.


	18. Heat-Trace - Chapter 16

## Chapter 16

The next three weeks of work were even easier than the last three. He didn’t hear from Mark. He wasn’t propositioned by either of the Daves. Pete had given up speculating about the sports club.

And the nightmare was not repeated, if nightmare it had been. He had to take Pete’s word for it that he’d been moaning. Looked at days later, from the security of the area car, it seemed nothing to get upset about.

Tony started asking him back onto the team. He said he’d think about it. “Don’t want to let you down again.” Tony had just shrugged. After the last few sessions of squash, Woods had started talking about taking the training as an area car driver. Doyle had encouraged him. After all, Woods would never take his job, and if it meant that he saw as little of him as he saw of Stone ...

Thursday nightshift, nine days into April, was Doyle’s last shift in the car for three months. He invited MacKenzie back for a coffee on Friday morning, and, to his surprise, the man accepted. He mentioned Woods’ ambitions, expecting a groan, but MacKenzie just nodded. Sometimes the man was too easy-going by half.

“You get on with Woods?”

“With Gary? Yeah.”

“You don’t think he’s ... cocky?”

“Can be, I s’pose. That’s just the way he is. Good laugh, though. He’ll go far. Got lots of drive. Lots of ideas.”

“Hmm.” Doyle felt as if he’d just been judged. No, being way too sensitive. MacKenzie saw good in everyone. Except Garrett. Hadn’t been impressed with her.

Now he _was_ missing Garrett. They’d agree on Woods, at least. Was it worth ‘phoning her up for a moan? Maybe finally she’d accept the invitation for dinner. He thought about it seriously while MacKenzie listed the other members of the relief who would make good drivers for the car. Where had he put that ‘phone number? On the pin-board in the kitchen?

He found it when MacKenzie had gone, but by then he was having second thoughts. She wouldn’t be interested in listening. Would say it was all his own fault for staying with the force. And then she’d start in again on the “long, hot summer”. He called anyway but was relieved when there was no answer.

Was it worth going back to the kitchen to put the number back on the board? Would he _really_ ever call her? Would he ever feel any different? Maybe when the summer was safely over he could call to say, “I told you so”. Though he hadn’t actually argued at the time. He left the scrap of paper by the ‘phone and went to bed.

In the evening he was getting ready to go over to Pete’s. They had a full weekend planned, “Stallions” and all. It was the first evening so far that had felt like spring, and he wandered around naked after his shower, taking his time getting dressed, and listening to the radio.

He almost missed the news because it was disguised as a travel bulletin about the closure of the Victoria line south of Victoria. Since he was going nowhere near the Victoria line, he nearly tuned the voice out, and just caught the end of the sentence about “... throwing stones at the police.” What? He looked at his watch. 6.50. Bound to be in the main news at seven. He dressed quickly, and then hovered over the radio.

The main news had a lot of words, but little information. A crowd of a hundred, they reckoned, in the centre of Brixton. Mostly black. Thirty police, some with shields. No idea how it started. More police being called in. He turned on the TV. There was the same story, but no pictures. Maybe they hadn’t had time to get a camera out. Maybe they couldn’t get close.

He couldn’t imagine it. Not in England, not in London. _Well, south of the river. Not really London._ But still. Jesus.

He left the radio and TV on and went into the bedroom to change out of his jeans and T-shirt and into his uniform. He had to get involved - that was just the way he was. Who knew what it might turn into? As it if wasn’t bad enough already. There was no way he could sit in Pete’s room drinking beer, when across the city ...

He couldn’t just drive down there. They wouldn’t let him through. Best to report to the station. Scotland Yard was probably coordinating it by districts. They’d be getting the vans together, finding the men to fill them. If he just reported in he’d be told where to go.

No more news had come through. He went round the flat turning everything off, and then returned to the sitting room to fetch his jacket. The sight of the ‘phone reminded him. _Ah, Pete. Damn._ He thought quickly as he dialled.

“Hi, Pete? Look, I’m sorry, but I’m not going to be able to make it. I’ve been called into work. Bloke’s off sick. Yeah, just half an hour ago. No, all weekend I guess. At least. Look, I’ll call you when I know how long it’s gonna be. Yeah, OK, bye.”

At the station, he was as well-informed as anyone. Most of the relief was out on the streets, as you’d expect on a Friday night. No one knew who was dealing with the back-ups, and no one was trying to find out. Who wants to volunteer to leave their own division without cover on the busiest night of the week? Doyle pointed out that he was on weekly leave - he wasn’t taking anything away from the division. Woods and other members of “B” relief arrived and added their voices to Doyle’s argument. There were enough constables keen to put themselves on the line - it was management that was hanging back. No one was prepared to lead them to Brixton.

However, by eight o’clock Brixton was quiet, and gradually the news started coming through. Some black had been injured, stabbed, sounded like. Some constables had been giving him first aid, waiting for the ambulance, but the mob had formed and dragged him away, and then stayed to throw stones. Shields had arrived, and dogs, and the mob broke up. It had all taken about an hour and a half.

Over the next few hours in the canteen the few bare facts were clothed in a variety of elaborate garments. Most were convinced the whole thing had been about drugs - a drug war that got onto the street. Or some crazy tribal squabble that the force would get all the blame for. The man had been stabbed over drugs, by other blacks, of course, and then when they saw he was getting help from the force they had to get him back, to stop him talking.

“No, I’m not saying they’re all in it. Hundreds of them or whatever. Not in the drugs thing. But they just have to walk down the street yelling, _Look dere’s a poor black maan. Save him from the pigs_ , and they’ve got whole families out doing their work for them.” That was Castle.

“I heard he died. Got to hospital in a taxi, and then he died.” Woods. There were murmurs from others who’d heard the same. “You see they don’t really care about their people. Not the way we do.” He snorted. “Reason they hate us is ‘cos they want to be left alone to fuck each other over. We’re trying to civilise ‘em and they don’t like it.” More murmurs.

Doyle slumped back in his chair, legs stretched straight out in front of him. He couldn’t go home. This was where he belonged at a time like this: on call; and with other coppers, who understood. For once, listening to Woods was not winding him up. He _was_ tense, but it was just frustrated adrenalin. The reaction in the canteen was mild, considering the canteen had a low enough opinion of blacks when they _weren’t_ throwing stones. Doyle heard it every day, and it didn’t bother him now.

At ten o’clock he looked at his watch and said, “Do you think it’s really over?”

Shrugs all round. “Probably,” said Woods. “Let’s go to the pub.” They went. Doyle checked in at the station on the way home, but Brixton was still quiet. Maybe it was all over. Maybe he’d make “Stallions” after all. Mark would be there - but he wasn’t hoping for anything.

* * * * *

He slept badly, partly because he couldn’t relax, and partly because he’d just come off nights. The Saturday lunchtime news on the TV had a few seconds of sodium-lit footage that showed little clearly except the anger. After seeing that, Doyle decided not to call Pete. The news was playing it down, in a way, with no mention of any police preparations for a repeat, but Doyle couldn’t forget that anger - that wouldn’t have slept any more soundly than he had.

After the news he went straight into the station again. A day of waiting was nothing new to him. Probably nothing would happen until dark - if anything happened at all - but ... there was nowhere else he could bear to be. He took a bike mag down to the canteen. Last night’s discussion was being repeated, this time with a pinched-looking blond taking Woods’ lines. Doyle didn’t know his name - didn’t know many of this relief. He sat down by the window with a coffee.

At three o’clock he was joined by Woods. “So you _don’t_ think it’s over?”

“No idea. Just don’t want to miss out, that’s all.”

“Miss out?”

“Yeah.” Woods unwrapped his chocolate biscuits, and started dunking them in his tea. “You know that would be the worst thing? If they just keep it in “L” District. Or in Area 4. So you _know_ there’s blokes getting kitted up, and driving in. But not you. God, that would make me sick. You wait _years_ for some real action, and then ...”

“So this is what you joined for?”

Shrug. “Guess so. What else is there? This is the perks. This is why you put up with the stupid old biddies who lock themselves out every month.”

Doyle nodded and carried on flicking through his magazine. Woods looked at the pictures upside down, and provided a commentary to which he seemed to expect no response.

Castle was the next of the relief to arrive, then Medland. Castle left after half an hour, having decided nothing was going to happen, and that he’d rather go and see a film. He was replaced by Dyall.

The group was relaxed, almost in a holiday mood. They talked, on and off, about the events of the nights before and the new rumours (the stabbed man hadn’t died - the crowd thought the police had injured him), but the initial urgency had gone; they put more passion into discussing the implications for overtime.

About an hour after Dyall appeared, around half past four, they started wondering when it would be safe to give up and go home.

“After six, I reckon,” said Doyle confidently.

“Why?”

“That’s when it started yesterday. They’ll know that and they’ll be even more uptight today. They’re going to want to go one better. If they manage to hold off past six, then -“ He shrugged. “- yesterday was just a one off.”

“You wanna bet on that?” said Woods.

“Yeah.” And the making of the bet took them five minutes closer to six o’clock.

At two minutes to five, a sergeant from the duty relief came into the canteen and announced, “They’ve gone wild again in Brixton. Same place as last night.”

Woods and Doyle were on their feet. “They want reinforcements?” asked Doyle.

The sergeant looked surprised. “It’s not that bad. They’ll handle it, same as before.” He turned and held his plate out for more chips. That was all his news.

Woods started muttering about the exact terms of the bet: had it been about the time things _started_ , or the time they became interesting? Doyle couldn’t be bothered to argue. He was thinking about the TV pictures. How would the anger look in daylight? Maybe it would all blow over in an hour and a half. He could go home and watch a video.

Around ten to six there was the sound of raised voices upstairs, though no words could be distinguished, and seconds later the relief’s inspector (Inspector James, Doyle vaguely remembered) was in the canteen. “Jennings, Elgin, Rickard, Moore. And you four. You’re coming to Brixton. The district’s sending a serial. Get out here and wait for the tender.”

Doyle dropped his magazine in a bin on the way out.

“It’s just the eight of us from this division, is it?” asked the pinch-faced blond, who Doyle assumed was Moore.

“And me,” replied Inspector James. “The other divisions are sending a sergeant each, and four men. The tender’s coming here last, and then on to Brixton. Most of you should have shields.”

The tender was slow in arriving. The light faded as they waited behind the station. After fifteen minutes Inspector James went back inside to find out what was happening.

He came back grimmer than when he went. “It’s on its way.” Pause. “Lads, this is not going to be like a football match or a march. They’re using petrol bombs. There are cars and houses on fire. They tried to drive a bus into us.”

Woods interrupted. “Are you trying to scare us?” It was a challenge, not a question.

“I’m trying to prepare you. I don’t want you going down there thinking this is going to be just another wild Saturday night. None of us have ever seen anything like this before.”

Apart from Woods, the group turned as grim as its inspector. They were silent until the tender arrived. Maybe some were wishing they were somewhere else. Not Doyle - he _had_ to be involved.

The tender looked full already when it arrived at quarter past six - crammed with policemen and shields. But the fifteen from the other divisions made room on the benches, and the serial was complete. The inspector started the introductions. Doyle identified the three sergeants, and a few names stuck.

They headed directly south, towards Waterloo Bridge, siren on from the very first. Through the small, scratched windows, Doyle saw the landmarks as if for the first time: the classical statuary of Bush House, brilliantly spotlit; Somerset House; the whole reach of the eastern Thames; the red light on the top of the Natwest Tower; the National Theatre, with the dot-matrix display scrolling away, oblivious.

Then there were no more spotlights, and someone was pointing behind Doyle’s right ear and talking about the last cricket match they’d seen at the Oval, and then they were in Brixton Road. There was nothing to be seen through the side-windows except calm-looking town-houses, and council estates.

They all started looking through the windows of the cab, searching for their first sight of the mob in the high street. One of the sergeants near the front had been tilting his head to look at the skyline. He stopped, and lifted a hand to the left. As far as Doyle could tell the orange glow was many streets away. He wished he knew Brixton better, that he hadn’t just driven along the high street once or twice on the way to somewhere else.

He could see running figures up ahead. “Looters.” He recognised Inspector James’ voice. There wasn’t a policeman in sight. Something thudded hard against the right side of the vehicle, just by Doyle’s head. They all jumped. There were more thuds. The side window of the cab shattered. The driver pulled off the high street, and stopped.

“Let’s _get_ them. Little _bastards_.” Woods.

“Yeah, what are we waiting for?” Another constable.

The inspector opened the rear doors. Some stood up and started getting shields down from the walls. “Stay here.” He got out, and they saw they were in the car park behind the police station.

They waited. A group of twelve or so officers, including some women, came out of the station, got into a waiting van, and was driven towards the high street. They had no shields. More vans arrived, and took away further groups. Cars came and went. A policewoman, eyes narrowed with pain, limped up the steps, supported by a man.

At about quarter to seven, their inspector reappeared, deep in conversation with a chief inspector. Both men came to the rear doors. The chief inspector had been bleeding from a cut under his left eye.

“Hello, lads. We’re waiting for another serial that’s coming from the East End, and then we’ll be off. Just to let you know what’s happening, we’re dug in in Atlantic Road.” He turned to face the east, and pointed. “Now I don’t know if you know this area, but after a couple of blocks Atlantic Road splits into Mayall Road -“ His finger described a long line veering off to the left. “- and Railton Road -“ Parallel to the previous line, but to the right. “- and they both go on for half a mile, to Herne Hill, with lots of streets running between them. Lots of escape routes, right.

“Now, the place where they split off -“ A small circle in the air at the beginning of the two lines. “- is called the Triangle. And they’ve got everything past the Triangle.

“They’re mostly in Railton Road, and in Leeson Road, which is the first of those escape routes.” A short line, like a rung in a step-ladder. “We tried to get down Mayall Road to them, but ...” He shook his head.

“One of the biggest problems is that there’s fires all along Railton Road, and down Effra Parade here.” He drew a long road at right-angles to Railton Road and off to the right, some way beyond Leeson Road. “The fire engines can’t get through on their own. They’re being stoned, same as us. And the ambulances. So we’re going to clear a path for the firemen.”

Just then Doyle noticed that a fire engine had arrived from the east, and was waiting in the street next to the car park.

“I’m going to take you to the other end of Effra Parade.” A wide arc to the far right. “And we’ll go along it to Railton Road, with the firemen behind us.” Pause. “Any questions?”

A young-looking constable (whose name had not stuck) said, “Has anyone been killed?”

“No.” Very definite. “Some bad injuries, though. Now, if you’re in the front and someone next to you gets hurt, _don’t_ turn to help him. That’s what they want, and they’ll be down on you worse than the ton of bricks they’re throwing already. The men behind him should pass him back, and then fill the gap.”

Just then another tender pulled in, windows also smashed, and they saw the rear doors swing open even before it had stopped moving. The chief inspector left them, and seconds later was drawing maps in the air again. Then he opened the passenger door of the second vehicle, gestured to their driver and to the fire-engine to follow, and they were off. No sirens this time.

They drove further down the high street. Every shop window seemed to be shattered. The looters were in plain view, completely unconcerned. A lot of them were children, and a lot of them were white. Doyle sat open-mouthed, half-convinced he’d stepped into another country. Thuds shook the tender every few seconds. The driver had an arm up, half-shielding his eyes. Woods and others were on their feet, shouting.

They turned left, in front of a large church with a classical portico. The thuds stopped after a block or two. The street-lighting was poor, and not because any bulbs had been smashed. Another left turn, and they could see the fires up ahead, the flames curling up out of the windows. Cars were on fire in the street. A ladder was silhouetted against the glow, leaning across the street from the top of a fire-engine that had been driven up onto the pavement, and apparently abandoned.

They stopped in a road to the right of Effra Parade, behind the other tender, while the fire-engine lined itself up facing Railton Road. Inspector James ordered everyone out, and then directed the last two to hand out the shields. Doyle got one, but eight others didn’t. They were joined by the other serial, which had even fewer shields.

The chief inspector led them to the front of the fire-engine, and arranged them in a line across the road, shields in front, and the rest forming nearly two rows behind. It was a thin line, and the shields did not form an unbroken wall. Doyle did not know the men from either side of him - he thought they were both from the second serial. Woods was two men away to his left. He turned round, but couldn’t see either Medland or Dyall.

In front was an unnatural brightness and noise. Behind, the all-consuming darkness and silence of Brockwell Park. Many yards away dark figures were moving. Arms were raised in the air. Smoking lights moved jerkily from right to left.

The crackle of a radio alternated with the chief inspector’s voice. Then he shouted to the firemen, and the engine growled into life.

“OK, men, we’re ready. Remember, we’re here to make sure the firemen can do their job. Just keep them away from the firemen. Don’t try for anything more than that. Let’s go.”

Doyle raised his truncheon and lifted his left arm to chest-height so that his face was completely covered by the heavy shield; it was the first time he’d even held one. They advanced slowly and steadily, keeping the line solid. Several times Doyle stumbled on debris in the road - a brick? a plank? - that had driven the previous firemen back. He wondered how many of these pieces had blood on them.

They were halfway down the street, just past the abandoned fire-engine, when the crowd saw them. There was a roar that carried over the sound of the burning buildings, and then there was a tidal wave rushing down Effra Parade.

“Oh, shit!” No one could have heard him. The first brick landed on his shield, jarring his arm painfully. Seconds later he’d given up counting. He couldn’t see anything except the crude weapons flying towards him. Some fell short. Some crashed in front of his eyes. Some whistled over his head. There were shouts of pain behind him, but the line stayed firm.

He crouched, and huddled closer to the shield. The men behind crouched even lower, and most of the missiles landed harmlessly. They tried to move forward, but the crowd swelled further, and the bombardment became continuous. _There’s hundreds of them. Christ, where are they getting all these bricks? They must be ripping whole houses down._

They were a good ten yards away from the nearest fire, which was beyond the start of the crowd. The mob got even thicker further away, turning into a solid mass in Railton Road. There was no way it was going to move back for fifty coppers, with only a truncheon each, and twenty two shields between them.

A flare of flame from a house on the left caused a distraction and a lull. Doyle shifted his shield to his right arm, to give his left a rest. They moved another step forward, kicking through the rubble with difficulty. The chief inspector urged them on, telling them they were ninety percent of the way there.

Doyle saw the man to his right bend to pick up a half-brick that had just come into range. He met Doyle’s eye as he stood up, and shook his fist in display. “That ugly wog fucker’s going to get this straight back if he ever has the guts to come near _me_ again.”

Doyle nodded, and peered through his shield, trying to memorise some faces of his own. They weren’t all black. Most, but not all. _What are the whites doing there, for Christ’s sake? Don’t they know who they are?_ The anger looked the same, whatever the colour of the face. The triumph, too. _Savages. They’re all savages._

The missiles had started flying again, though fewer than before. Maybe something was happening in the other streets, drawing them away. They edged forward another two feet. Maybe they’d make it after all. The fire-engine crawled after them.

Then the first petrol bomb struck, far to the right. Doyle saw the trail as it flew, scattered crazily through scratched plastic, then heard it break on the ground, just in front of the line. He flinched back from the rush of flames. Then a man was screaming, and others were shouting about “petrol on the ground” and “get a fire blanket”, and there was cheering from the crowd. When the commotion finished they were two men down.

Over the next ten minutes there were two more petrol bombs which fell short, amid a steady supply of bricks, iron bars, and timber that had, by then, come to seem part of everyday life. The man to Doyle’s right was throwing them back whenever he had a chance. So was Woods. So were others. Spirits were high.

A bottle exploded in front of Doyle’s left eye, leaving a red liquid dripping down his shield.

“Ahh!” But he quickly saw that it was too viscous. And too dark. The smell reached him, and he laughed harshly. “It’s treacle! The crazy bastards are throwing treacle at us!” His laughter spread along the line. He could see even less through his shield, though.

The next petrol bomb landed close to Doyle, on his left. It broke near the edge of one shield, and the liquid surged around the curve of the plastic, and splashed the shield-bearer and his neighbour, who was standing next to Doyle. There was a sharp smell of burning wool, and then a trace of something sweeter. Doyle was never to eat bacon again.

He obeyed the chief inspector’s orders, and faced straight ahead throughout, even when the hail of missiles intensified as the injured men were led away from the protection of the line of shields, and he knew men had been hit, and men had fallen.

The gap closed, and he was standing next to Woods. Two shields lay on the ground in front of them. One was on fire, the foam padding on the back giving off a black, eye-stinging smoke. He and Woods looked at one another, then nodded, and inched forward, covering one another, until Woods could grasp the other shield, and drag it back.

The line reformed, having yielded some ground. Doyle had half-expected the crowd to rush forward, and beat them back with more fire, but the distance was the same as it had always been. Maybe they would be allowed to retreat safely: edge back to the bottom of the street and then make a dash for the tenders. He hoped the idea didn’t occur to the chief inspector. _He_ was staying here until this lot finally learnt who they were dealing with. If it took all night. If it was just him and a dustbin lid in the middle of the street. Their anger was nothing to his. Stone a man who’s moaning with burns. They were not going to get away with it.

There was no suggestion of a retreat, from anywhere in the line, or from the firemen. Anyway, they seemed to have reached a stale-mate. The mob wouldn’t let them get any further forward, but it wasn’t interested in a hand-to-hand confrontation. Instead, both sides threw rocks back and forth over many minutes, and there were flurries of jeering and predictable insults.

Woods discovered the heartening pastime of banging on a shield with a truncheon, which was instantly picked up by the rest of the front line, and helped get them through the next petrol-bomb attacks which followed soon after. The attacks took another two from their number, but morale was high and they held their ground. After that the supply of petrol bombs seemed to dry up. The bricks kept coming, though, and Doyle’s right arm started to ache badly from holding the shield over his head, but there was no lull for a change-over.

Eventually the roof of the burning house to the left caved in, sending up a fireball that was taller than the house itself. Doyle felt a pulse of heat on his face. Firemen were swearing loudly. The crowd scattered again, but the chief inspector, who had been shouting into his radio for nearly a minute, ordered the policemen to stay put. There was some muttering from Woods, but shortly afterwards the chief inspector came off the radio and announced that reinforcements were on their way. There was a loud cheer, and a chorus of truncheon rattling that drowned the chief inspector out for a few seconds.

“... three more serials. The chief superintendent will be taking charge when they arrive. Let’s save the push till then, eh?” There was another cheer as they savoured the image of a sea of blue charging down Effra Parade. The crowd had still not returned to its full force. Doyle glanced at his watch. _Fuck! Eight o’clock. Nearly an hour._ Pete would have finished dinner. They would be waiting for Mark and the rest to show up. He shifted the shield back to his left arm, and flexed his right to get the stiffness out.

* * * * *

Since Doyle didn’t dare to turn round, his first sign that the reinforcements had arrived came from the reaction of the mob. Bricks started flying high over his head, to land with a crash that was, by then, unmistakeable - there were people back there with shields. The shields soon took their place in the front line, filling up all the gaps.

A new voice was raised above the din. “You lads have held on tight. We’re all proud of you. You’ve done a great job. And now there’s twice as many of us, we’re going to be twice as great. We’re pushing on them from every side, with more coming in from all over the Met every minute. They won’t last much longer. They’re gutless. Hell, you _know_ they’re gutless. You’ll be home in time to watch the big match.” Then he broke off suddenly, and Doyle was aware of a rapid conversation going on several yards behind him.

He turned to the man on his right, who was a new arrival. “What’s going on?”

“Firemen bottling out, I think. Heard him on the way down, trying to get through to their control.”

“Oh, shit. What did he mean: “twice as many”, back then? I thought you were three serials coming.”

“Third’s on its way. He’s going to put it behind the fire-engine. In case they come down the other end of the street.”

“Christ, I hadn’t thought of that.” Imagine, the mob moving in from both ends. Trapped in the middle.

“I don’t think they will. There’s not enough side streets down here - not like up there - only one way to run. They wouldn’t risk it.”

Doyle nodded, reassured. While the chief superintendent was (presumably) arguing with the firemen, Doyle heard some men saying that the fifth serial had arrived. Since this time the hail of stones didn’t shift its attention from the front line, he guessed that his neighbour had been right, and the new serial was staying well back.

Then the chief superintendent was back with them. “Well, you nearly got a change of scene then. Our firemen’s guvnors were telling them to pull out, but they’ve decided to stick with us. They know you can do it. And there’s even more of us now. So what are we waiting for? Are you ready?”

“Yes!” from over a hundred throats.

“Then let’s go!”

As the band of policemen moved forward, the crowd drew back, some pausing to lob a last brick. Soon they were level with the burning house, which Doyle saw now was a pub. _God, I could do with a drink. Least they could do is stand us a pint when this is over._ Then they were past it, and approaching Railton Road. Doyle finally saw the true size of the mob.

_It’s hundreds. Christ, it’s hundreds._

_They’re going to kill us._

They stopped five yards short of the end of the road, and Doyle realised that they’d got off lightly before. A large, soil-covered rock struck near the top of his shield. He staggered backwards, and nearly fell, but was caught by the men behind, who steadied him. “You OK there?” He nodded, and raised his shield again, waiting for the petrol-bombs to start.

The fire-engine was finally in use, but it was far too late for the pub. There was plenty more work for it though, if they could just get into Railton Road. Doyle could see gaps in the crowd around several burning cars. One to the right looked as if it used to be an area car. From where he stood, he could see two houses on fire too, looking much as the pub had when they’d first arrived in Effra Parade. He was sure there must be others, up and down the street.

The chief superintendent was talking to the firemen again. Doyle could only make out the tone of his voice: calm, firm and practical. You’d think he did this every day of his life. Then, in the same tone he was addressing his men. “As you can see, we’ve got to take back Railton Road, and this is how we’re going to do it. I’m going to split you in two, and half of you are going to clear the left side, and half of you are going to clear the right side. If we can just get to the next junction each way we’ll be able to get to the worst of the fires.

“Every one from _here_ -“ The voice was to Doyle’s left. “- will be going left, with me. And every one from _here_ -“ The voice was right behind Doyle. “- will be going right, with the chief inspector. Move forward together at first, and then split off when I give the word. It’s going to be tough, but you’ve shown that you can do it. Now!”

They reached the junction of the roads, and then started moving out in a V-shape as they finally stepped into Railton Road after their hour-long journey down Effra Parade. The mob was ferocious, and very close. Doyle finally fixed some faces in his mind: people he would know again; people he would see in dreams.

The tip of the V reached the far side of the street fairly quickly, but the shields stretched further and further apart. Doyle ended up with the smaller part of the mob, but it was still large enough to be very dangerous, maybe more so because it could draw supplies from the whole length of the road down to - what was it? - Herne Hill.

He could see people running backwards and forwards far into the distance, lit bright by the fires that were raging on both sides of the street. The sound of breaking glass came regularly. He thought as first it was windows blowing out, then he realised it was looting as well. Though God knows the pickings would be poor enough. The street might have been smart once, eighty years ago, but since then it had been neglected - now it was being abused.

They moved forward very very slowly. The attack was continuous, and the rage seemed neither to diminish nor to change. Every few minutes, though, Doyle would notice a new weapon: some were almost funny, like the treacle; some were terrifying. They had warning of the scaffolding pole because of the organisation and effort it took to swing it, and so they were able to brace themselves. The impact was sickening, but they stood it. If it had come from nowhere, though ... It would have swept the front line down, and then ...?

Doyle changed his mind from second to second as to how many of the mob were intent on murder. If they did manage to break the line, would they rush in to finish the enemy off? Or would they stop at that victory? And if they would stop, what did that mean? That they had some limits, some traces of civilisation after all? Or that they were just too gutless?

He’d found two, at least, with _ambitions_ to murder, though they probably preferred to do it from a distance. There was a very thin young black with bad teeth and an orange shirt, who kept running out at odd angles, getting closer than anyone else. He threw the first milk crate, which had ripped the helmet off one constable, splitting his head open, and then stood and jeered before running off down a side street.

The other was a filthy-looking white, with long, tangled brown hair, and a baggy grey jumper with a badly-frayed collar. He was the one with most of the petrol bombs, which were being passed forward to him from somewhere out of sight. Between bombs he shouted. Doyle was sure the man was looking straight at him. In fact, he was sure he was the main target of everything that was being thrown. He’d just been very lucky so far. Maybe it was the treacle. Maybe they really thought it was blood. Fucking cretins. When had any copper had a chance to do that sort of damage?

They kept moving forward, bit by bit, losing men from the front to petrol bombs, and men from the back to broken bottles, milk crates, and bricks. Doyle had no way of judging the passage of time - there was no question of looking at his watch. Eventually they were level with the next side street, which was off to the right, parallel with Effra Parade. Doyle looked up at the wall on the far corner. _Chaucer Road. Jesus, what a joke._

The attack continued, worse now because the mob had spread into Chaucer Road and was aiming from a wider area. Some had climbed onto walls to get a better aim. The police line stopped. Doyle wondered how the other half was doing. He half turned his head, and shouted the question. From the chorus of replies he gathered that they’d barely moved an inch.

“What about the fire-engine?” They were just getting started. Problems with the hoses in all the broken glass.

“Mmm.” He faced ahead again, just in time to see something white hit Woods’ shield, and then shoot off, very fast, over their heads. He jumped. “What was that?”

Woods’ teeth were bared, as they had been since the move into Railton Road. It might even have been a grin. “They’re playing frisbee with dinner plates.” They both laughed incredulously, but stopped when the next few hit. The spin on the plates made them very unpredictable, and gave them a frightening force. Some would skitter along three or four shields, as if looking for a way through. Doyle spotted the black in the orange shirt, crouched down with a stack of them by his feet. _He looted them. I know he looted them._

Their chief inspector had been urging them to stand firm, and then the chief superintendent’s voice was added, explaining that the only way to secure the area for the firemen was to move forward to the far side of Chaucer Road, so they could form a line across the mouth of Chaucer Road as well. “The more we split them up, the easier it is. They mustn’t have a chance to get at us from the sides. This’ll spread you thin, but it’ll let the firemen get at the worst, and I’ve called for re-inforcements and I know they’re on their way.

“Move forward from the left first so we have a diagonal all the way across the junction. Then move forward from the middle to cut them off.”

Doyle and Woods were near the left end of the line. The mob could see what was planned, and it didn’t like it. Doyle’s personal enemies were right there, throwing plates and petrol bombs with no sign that they would ever stop. The gaps between the shields widened. _Too thin. We’re far too thin. We can’t hold them. Not across two streets at once._ But they kept going.

They were halfway across the junction when Doyle was hit. A blur of blue-and-white low down on his right, a clattering slide across the shield next to him, and then a blow to his stomach which sent him to the ground. The pain went on and on. When it faded enough to let him open his eyes he found he was curled up on the ground, several yards behind the line.

Three men were bent over him. One was carrying a half-shield. He recognised the man’s voice, though he couldn’t respond - it was the chief superintendent. Soon the other two men got him to his feet, and half-carried him back down Effra Parade and up the steps of a house across the road from the smouldering pub. The house was full of injured policemen, most with head wounds, some with burns.

On the threshold of the living room - flowered wallpaper, a nest of inlaid coffee tables, television in a cabinet by the far wall - he took more of his own weight, and found enough air to speak. “It’s OK. I’m just winded.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I’ll be back a few minutes. Just need a chance to sit down and get my breath back.” He eased himself down on the bottom step of the stairs. “You go ahead.”

They looked at him, and then nodded, turned and left.

He leant against the wall with his eyes closed.

_Why can’t I just die here?_

His body wasn’t complaining much, apart from aching arms, a shocked churning in his gut, and exhaustion everywhere. But his mind was screaming at the idea of returning to the line in Railton Road. He dropped his head in his hands, eyes still closed.

 _I have to go back. There’s just no question. And now. If they lose any more it could all fall to pieces. I have to go now._ He stayed on the stairs.

There was movement in front of him. Ambulancemen were carrying stretchers into the hallway. He could just see the ambulance through the open door. He hadn’t heard it arrive. When the first man was carried out, he stood to give them more room, and climbed a few steps up the stairs.

He could see that there was a bathroom at the top of the stairs. Probably two bedrooms off to the right. A mirror image of Dave’s house. He looked as his watch. Ten to nine. They’d be setting off to “Stallions” soon. Or maybe everyone was staying indoors, frightened it might spread.

Maybe it _had_ spread. Maybe that was why the reinforcements were so slow. Maybe it was happening everywhere. Maybe his flat had already burnt to the ground. He felt a pang for - _God, of all things_ \- Bodie’s letters to him.

The ambulance had driven off. He looked down at the bottom step, then sighed and straightened his shoulders. But he paused before descending, and then turned and climbed quickly to the top of the stairs and locked himself in the bathroom. All those coffees he’d had in the canteen.

He drank some cold water, and then splashed more over his face. He couldn’t avoid seeing himself in the mirror when he towelled himself dry. _Is that how I looked when Bodie first saw me? Close, I think. Must be close._

* * * * *

He made his way slowly up Effra Parade. He passed the shield that had caught fire, then paused. He needed a shield, couldn’t imagine standing helpless and exposed. How had they stood it, the men in the back? He went back and picked it up. The straps were intact, though bare of padding. He fitted it on his left arm. He’d lost his truncheon, and his helmet. He scanned the ground as he approached Railton Road, and soon found replacements. The abandoned fire-engine had gone.

He stopped at the junction and looked left, curious to see just how far the others had got. _Shit._ Just yards down the road. And the mob so close. Nearly at arms length. It looked bad. Really bad.

_Should I join them?_

Just then he heard shouts from the firemen ahead of him, beyond the two fire-engines, and he watched open-mouthed as the corner house of the terrace opposite collapsed outwards with a rush of flame. Almost as an echo, three flares exploded to the left as petrol-bombs landed in quick succession. Doyle started to make his way to the left, past the fire-engines.

But as he got close he saw the chief superintendent take a hose from one of the firemen, and turn it on the crowd. The crowd fell back. The chief superintendent turned and shouted, and other policemen left the line and commandeered further hoses. The firemen were shaking their heads.

But the pressure was off. Doyle turned and hurried towards his own men. He could see immediately that they’d succeeded. They’d made it all the way across the junction. He walked past a car, just before the junction, that had definitely not been there before.

He took his place again in the line across Railton Road. Nothing seemed to have changed, though it was easier with the attack only from the front. The skinny black and the filthy white had not run out of energy or weapons. He gripped his shield tight, and scanned the crowd nervously for anyone with plates.

In a (relative) lull, Woods nudged him. “You OK?”

He nodded.

“Knew you couldn’t stay away.”

He laughed, not sure how serious Woods was. “What happened with the car back there?”

“They pushed it into us. Nigger in the orange shirt started it off. He’s got it coming, I can tell you.”

“What did you do?”

Woods shrugged. “Just got out of the way. They were expecting us to panic. Hadn’t any plan for when we didn’t.”

For a while he thought he’d found a rhythm, or a state of mind, that he could maintain indefinitely. Then, over the space of a few minutes, the crowd swelled in size and boldness. There were five injuries, which they couldn’t afford, and they were driven back, losing control of the junction. Doyle kept expecting the fire-hoses to appear, but they didn’t.

The chief inspector was calling for re-inforcements. Doyle had decided these were a fantasy. They’d been asking for re-inforcements all night; there was simply no one else out there.

The crowd got even thicker, and then, in the distance, Doyle saw the reason why. There were shields at the far end of Railton Road, showing as reflected orange light, getting closer. He pointed this out to Woods.

“Hah! We’ve got them sandwiched. Splat!”

Doyle just hoped they’d do the sensible thing and run away. There were enough escape routes, for God’s sake. No more injuries. Though if he should come across his two favourites in a deserted side-street ...

Shortly after that re-inforcements _did_ arrive, and the line re-took the junction. Minutes later, the crowd just melted away down the side-streets beyond Chaucer Road.

Doyle propped his shield against a low wall, and then sat down next to it. He peered at his watch. 9.36.

* * * * *

He got home after midnight. They’d stayed to cover the fire-brigade while the last of the fires were put out, and then they returned to the tender, and were driven back north. Only half of the serial was uninjured. Inspector James was in hospital.

Some of them, like Woods, relived the evening with fervour during the journey. Others, like Doyle, slumped back, silent.

They stopped for a drink when they reached Doyle’s station. Doyle gulped his pints down. He needed this. Not just for the water or the alcohol. He needed to mark his survival in some way, with other survivors. He didn’t talk much, and then only to those who were as shaken as he was, and about ordinary force gossip.

After two pints and a large scotch he took his leave.

“See you tomorrow, Ray,” Woods shouted after him.

“Eh?”

“They reckon it’s not over yet. Same time in the canteen?”

He raised a hand, then pushed though the door, and out into the still-warm night.

* * * * *

As soon as he got in he ran a bath, then poured himself another large scotch, which he took into the bathroom. He didn’t turn the main light on - it seemed too bright - just the one over the mirror, and then he closed his eyes once he’d settled himself with the glass balanced on the rim of the bath.

His body didn’t seem to realise it was home. Phantom blows kept jarring his arms, rocking him on his feet.

So tired. He hadn’t known it was possible to be so tired. Worse even than three days and nights without sleep, watching over Bodie. And all from just two and a half hours’ work. Didn’t really add up, did it?

The water was cooling. Top it up, or get out. Have to get out sometime, anyway. He sighed deeply and unevenly, his diaphragm as tired as the rest of him. Then he sighed again, and again, unable to stop. He knew he was working himself up to tears. _Exhaustion, that’s all._ But he’d feel worse if he let go.

He sat up abruptly and drained his glass, then set to work briskly with soap and a flannel.

The bed felt empty. He felt empty. He lay on his back, rubbing his left arm - his shield arm - with a firmness that was almost painful, trying to give it something else to think about.

 _I wonder how Woods is doing._ Still drinking, probably. _Not moping around in a luke-warm bath, that’s for sure._ Unexpectedly, there came the clear image of the Christmas party. _What? You think he’s fucking himself to sleep. Nah, who’d take him on?_ Another image, of Woods on his knees and elbows, cock livid and glistening, pale cheeks divided by a dark line of hair and shadow. He shouldn’t have been able to see both front and back like that, but somehow he could see everything, even the hairy shoulders that had repulsed him from the first time he’d seen them in the showers after squash.

The pulse of arousal was not welcome. He opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling. “Stop muckin’ about.” Go to sleep. Another long day tomorrow. _Oh, Jesus. What if he’s right and it isn’t over yet? What if I have to go back?_ He turned onto his side. _I can’t. I just can’t._

 _Well, you don’t have to. You’re on weekly leave. Not even on standby. Go off to the Cotswolds or something. Get away from your ‘phone._ It was tempting. It wasn’t comforting.

_I still have to get involved. Even when it leaves me like this. I can’t just sit by and leave it to the others. Dunno why. But I can’t. And if I’m not in the canteen at three Woods will never let me forget it._

_But you were injured. Say the bruising’s come out and you can barely stand. Say it was right over the stab wound._ It had been damn close, anyway. Bruising _might_ be bad by morning. _Not that bad, though._

There was no way out. He’d have to go to the station. He turned over again, onto his other side, facing the window.

_What’s wrong with a bit of self-pity? I’m human, aren’t I? It’s only heroic cretins like Woods who treat all this like a game._

And Bodie. Bodie would have taken it all without complaining or boasting. Bodie had been through much worse. And he didn’t complain. Not when he was conscious anyway.

 _And he’s not a heroic cretin. Well ..._ He remembered the Bodie who’d delivered him to the police station - long ago. _No. He’s just awkward sometimes. Unsure of himself, I think._ Maybe Woods was like that deep down. Yeah, well, he’d sort of figured that out already. But Woods took it out on everyone, all the time, seemed to feel no lack in himself. He would never feel tenderness and protectiveness towards Woods, only a reflection of Woods’ own aggression.

Bodie felt the lack, though. Felt it too much. _“You make me feel human.”_ No one should ever have to say that, ever have to hear that.

Self-pity again.

Suddenly he longed for Bodie, more fiercely than he could have believed possible. To have Bodie here in the bed. To be able to curl around him, lose all distress in the pulse of his blood, the gentling of his strong hands. To know that Bodie felt the pain as if it were his own. To open his mouth for Bodie’s most gentle kiss.

Pete couldn’t give him that. Or Mark. No one but Bodie.

With Bodie to see him off and to come back to, the streets of Brixton would be forgotten as soon as they were out of view.

But that would be a different world. In this world, Bodie was lost forever, and behind his eyelids Brixton still burned. Stupid to torture himself with fantasies.

God, how many times was he going to have to tell himself that? This world had its compensations. Sex with Pete was simple ... clean. Made him _simply_ glad that he had a cock and an arsehole. No despairing tears, not with Pete.

And he’d survived Brixton. Survived something he had no training for, something none of them had training for. It was bloody incredible when you thought about it. He was proud of all of them, even Woods, who _was_ brave, much though Doyle hated to agree with him. He was proud to be a copper, more than ever.

Yeah, settle down to _this_ world. It had always been enough before Bodie came along.

The longing for Bodie had receded. Stupid to want to shut out the world anyway, put someone else as a buffer between himself and reality. That was a coward’s way and a fool’s, and he was neither of those things. He’d spent his life looking reality straight in the face, and he wasn’t going to stop now; no horror could outstare Raymond Doyle. The riot had happened, and it had taught him things about ... people, and he couldn’t forget the lesson. If necessary he’d go back for more.

He nodded to himself, knowing he was over the worst. He’d be in the canteen waiting for Woods. He rolled over again and tried to relax. The phantoms still pelted him periodically, but there was a gap between assaults, and he slipped through into sleep.

He woke up several times, escaping from uncomplicated nightmares just before the mob rushed in to trample him as he lay in the gutter. Each time, the loss of his shield had been like an amputation. In the last dream, the black with the orange shirt had got hold of his helmet and his truncheon, and had danced around him whooping, the rotten, uneven teeth gleaming under the strange black halo. But it hadn’t happened. He told himself that each time, as soon as he was aware that he was awake.

* * * * *

He was in the station by three on Sunday afternoon, having decided that any trouble would start at about four - if you assumed it got an hour earlier every day. But he was told he was too late. The serials had left in the morning. However, they were very thin on the streets, and since he was reporting for work ... He nodded resignedly, and worked the rest of the late shift. Woods had been on the first tender out.

The duty relief wasn’t interested in hearing his opinion of the riots. They’d already had a first-hand account from their four who’d been in the serial, and most were better-informed than Doyle, having watched several hours’ worth of news. The same went for the general public. Several acquaintances came up to him and asked him what he thought of the riots. He could have sworn some of them said it with a smirk. Maybe he should buy himself a fire-safe.

Back home, watching the news himself, he started to get a clearer picture of what had happened. The man who’d been injured on Friday had not died. Saturday had started outside a car-hire place in Atlantic Road, when two plain-clothes constables, part of some big operation on street-crime, had stopped and tried to search a taxi-driver. Sunday had seen lots of small, isolated groups; nasty in their way, but the police had never lost control as they had on Saturday.

There was some footage, taken from both sides of the lines. He recognised Effra Parade, and thought he saw the black in the orange shirt, but none of it seemed to be from Saturday night. He didn’t think he’d have recognised himself, anyway. Even Bodie wouldn’t have recognised him. Those lines of shields were strangely anonymous; they gave no impression of the humans behind them. The discussions seemed to emphasise this: many of the talking heads seemed to think that throwing a petrol bomb was a minor lapse, but that drumming on a riot-shield with a truncheon was a national disgrace. There were calls for a public enquiry. Doyle gave the TV a vigorous V-sign and then turned it off.

It really seemed to be over. He wouldn’t go in on Monday. He called Pete and arranged to go round for dinner; there was no pottery because of the Easter break.

“How was ‘Stallions’?”

“Oh, we didn’t go. We had a Riot Party instead.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we were glued to the TV. Don’t tell me you missed it. Even out at the club you must hear about the real world once in a while.”

“Why a party? Did you think there’d be trouble in the West End?”

Pete laughed. “Well, I missed Stonewall. I wasn’t going to miss this. It was wonderful. Like being back at college again. All the old stories were coming out. Ahh.”

Doyle had no idea what he was talking about. “Well, I’ll be round about seven tomorrow. Should I bring red or white wine?”

“Oh ... red. It’ll be pasta, I think.”

* * * * *

It was pasta, and the Daves shared it. Doyle came very close to throttling the lot of them before the wine was even poured out.

The topic was launched when Dave the teacher looked up from grating the parmesan. “You’ve got bloody awful timing, Ray. The only person we know with a video - or a colour TV even - and you’re out of town all through the riots. Unless you taped it yourself?”

“Why would I do that?”

They all frowned at him in puzzlement. Pete said, as if to a slow pupil, “So you could re-watch it whenever you felt like it.”

“Watch houses burning down? Watch policemen being stoned?”

Pete nodded encouragingly. “Exactly.”

“Are you serious?”

Dave again. “Well, of course. Makes you proud to be British. Gives you hope for the future.”

“And we always said the Brits would never have the guts. Didn’t we, in college?” Pete appealed to Dave, who nodded. “Just goes to show.”

“Well, I suppose it _was_ encouraging, the way it was dealt with. Considering police haven’t any training at all in -“

The three men were falling about laughing. Pete recovered first. Grinning and shaking his head he said, “You’re winding us up.”

Doyle just looked at them. They looked back, smiling. Finally he said slowly, “I don’t understand. You _liked_ watching the riots? It didn’t frighten you? You really did have a party because of them.”

Pete said lightly, “You’re amazing, Ray. Have you never had fantasies about revolution?”

“Of _course_ not.”

“Not even when you first heard about Stonewall?”

Doyle shook his head. “Who’s Stonewall?”

“Wow.” - “I don’t believe it.” - “Somebody educate that man.” Doyle could take his pick.

“Well, come on then.” _Let’s get it over with._

Pete took control of the lesson. “1969? The Stonewall Inn? New York?” Doyle’s memory refused to be prodded. “The police used to harass gay bars as a matter of routine. A practice not totally unknown in this country even today, especially if you live in James Anderton’s Straighter Manchester.” Pause. “You’ve heard of James Anderton?”

  _Pretend this is work. A wind-up on the street._ “Yes, I’ve heard of James Anderton.”

“Anyway, on the last weekend in June, 1969, they tried it on the Stonewall Inn in Greenwich Village. And the queers did _not_ just sit and take it, as they had before. They rioted, and they carried on rioting all weekend, and that was the start of the gay liberation movement. That’s why the Gay Pride March is when it is - it’s as close as possible to the anniversary of Stonewall. You do go on the march?”

“I don’t miss the march, no.”

“Well, that’s a start. It’s _important_ , Ray.” He’d never seen Pete this serious before. “We owe a lot to Stonewall. Of course we’ve still got a long way to go. A hell of a long way. But there are kids around today who look at you with -“ He mimed it. “- blank incomprehension when you talk about being ashamed to be gay. It’s just not a problem for them, never has been. And that’s wonderful. And that would never have happened if it hadn’t been for Stonewall.

“You just have to riot sometimes. And it is just _bloody good_ to see another group that’s been _shat_ on by the pigs saying ... ‘we’re not going to take it anymore’. There are _so_ many people in this country who get treated like second-class citizens, and the first-class citizens don’t even notice it because we’re too fucking _English_ and polite to get angry. And we’re still scared, too. They noticed it this weekend though.”

“And that’s why we had a Riot Party,” Dave the barman finished with a shrug.

Doyle didn’t know what to say. He wandered into the kitchen to get a corkscrew and some glasses, then sat at the dining table and opened the bottle. The others were silent, waiting for him to say that he’d finally seen the light. He disappointed them.

“You haven’t seen much violence, have you? Any of you.”

“I work in an inner-city school, Ray,” said Pete. “Don’t let anyone tell you kids are sweet and innocent.”

“But have you ever felt _personally_ threatened?”

“Yes.” Both teachers spoke in unison.

Doyle looked at them and then shook his head. “I don’t think you really understand what’s been happening out there.” He pointed towards the front window, which actually faced north, but no one pointed this out. “People have been hurt. People have lost their houses, their livelihoods. It’s not some ... comic strip or a Tom and Jerry cartoon where everyone bounces back good as new at the end of it. This is _real._ ”

“Hardly anyone was hurt.” Pete was leaning over to pour himself a glass of wine, and didn’t look at Doyle.

Doyle was a flex of the muscles away from yanking up his T-shirt to reveal the bruising - by now quite impressive. Instead he folded his arms. “I thought you lot had been glued to the TV all weekend. How did you miss the shots of policemen getting taken away in ambulances?”

A shrug. “Oh. The pigs. I meant people.”

“I don’t _believe_ this. You were sitting here cheering every time a copper got splashed with burning petrol, were you?”

“Well ... not every time,” said Dave the barman. “Only when they provoked it.”

“Yeah,” said Pete, “banging on those bloody great shields. I dread to think where they teach them that.”

“They don’t teach them that _anywhere_. They invented it on Saturday night because they were fucking terrified, and it kept them going.”

“That was never on the TV. You got half the SPG down your club, then? You know a hell of a lot about this for someone who was working all weekend.” Pete. On about the club again.

“No! You don’t need inside information for this. You just need a bit of imagination. Christ, you’re-“

For some reason they were all laughing again, as if he’d just delivered the punchline of an elaborate joke. Again, Pete was the first to recover. “Brilliant, Ray. ‘Imagination.’ God, next you’ll be telling us to ‘empathise’. It’s years since I’ve met a liberal.”

“I’m not a liberal.” He didn’t know if he was or not.

“Oh, you _must_ be. I refuse to believe you’re a Tory. What did you vote in the last election?”

“I didn’t.”

“Well, there you go. No, I think it’s sweet, you worrying about the poor little pigs. But I’d keep quiet about it all if I were you.”

“Yeah,” said Dave the barman, “having a thing about uniforms is one thing. But being a liberal -“ He pulled a face. “- next worst thing to being bisexual. In some circles, of course.” He wiggled his eyebrows, intending a joke that Doyle could never share. The others had no problems, however.

It was the first time Doyle had come across such determined condescension - “You’re sweet when you’re angry.” - and it stumped him. He could walk out. He could tell the truth about how he’d spent the weekend. But it would lose him some good sex, and wouldn’t change their minds a jot. He just didn’t understand how they viewed the world. Would he have been like them if he’d been gay right from the beginning?

He shrugged, and filled the remaining wine glasses.

* * * * *

Later, after the pasta and the lingering conversation which Doyle had kept determinedly away from the riots, he and Pete took the remains of the second bottle of wine and went upstairs.

Pete exclaimed over the bruises.

“Someone threw a weight at me. It was an accident.”

“Are you sure you should be up and about? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I thought you were used to violence. No, it’s OK. Just don’t kneel on me.”

“Wasn’t going to.” Pete carried on tracing over the marks. “How _did_ you get this scar? Or did I ask?”

Doyle had toyed with several explanations. An new one came on the spur of the moment. “It was up north, years ago.” The scar was just a silver line now - Pete wouldn’t know how old it was. “I was queer-bashed.”

Pete nodded. “Nasty. Did you report it to the police?”

“No.”

A pause while Pete moved to lie alongside Doyle, propped up on one elbow. “I don’t understand you, Ray. You’ve got this scar. You’re not stupid. But you’ve got no politics at all. Don’t you want to live in a world where this sort of thing doesn’t happen?” He gestured towards Doyle’s stomach.

“I’d like the people who did this to be punished -“ They had been. He and Bodie had killed them. “- but I don’t see that that’s helped by breaking the skull of a copper I’ve never even met. Who’s done me no harm.”

“They’re part of the system. Where the system’s racist and homophobic they make it worse. You _must_ know the pigs hate queers and blacks.”

Doyle looked down at the floor, away from Pete. “Yes.” Very quiet. Then he raised his head. “But they’re just ... representative of the system. You bring in Joe Public off the streets and he’s gonna be more like the coppers than he is like you. Or me.”

“They’re not representative. If they were they’d be 51 percent women, and 10 percent gay, and I don’t know what percent black. And they’re _nothing_ like that. They’re self-selected bully-boys who need the security of a uniform. They help keep this country mean-spirited and narrow-minded. They’re dragging us down.”

Doyle sighed. “There are _good_ coppers. Who _serve_ the public.” To his surprise it was Garrett he thought of, talking about the importance of making people feel safe. “Yeah, there are bully-boys. But you never know who’s on the other side of that riot-shield, and I for one would hold off lobbing bricks for the sake of the good coppers.”

A smile, a mixture of affection, sadness and more condescension. “A liberal through and through.”

“If you say so. If that’s what I am, I’ve been it all my life and I’m not going to change.”

“But you’ve never had much to do with other gays, have you? Apart from fucking. I mean, you don’t know anything about gay history. When have you had a chance to get politicized?”

Now _that_ was a new word. “Well, you’re doing your best to educate me, aren’t you?”

“Bit by bit. I’ll go easy though, in future. You’re not so bad.” A warm hand on Doyle’s rib-cage. An apology?


	19. Heat-Trace - Chapter 17

## Chapter 17

The switch to the beat-hours (an hour earlier than area-car hours) made no difference to the time that Doyle left Pete’s bed on Tuesday morning. He’d always left early anyway, to allow time for the fictional drive to St. Albans. Predictably, Woods greeted him in the locker-room.

“Didn’t see you on Sunday, Ray?”

“Didn’t think the tender would leave that early. How was it?”

“A doddle. Clearing up mostly. But enough action to make it worthwhile.”

“Mmm.”

“Saw that bastard nigger in the orange shirt again. Don’t think he ever changes it. Should make him easy to spot, eh?”

“If it ever comes to an identity parade, yeah.” Probably not what Woods meant, but easiest to pretend that it was.

That was only the beginning of the “B” relief discussions of the riots. The four of them who’d been down there were questioned about it endlessly.

The others all had excuses of one sort and another. Sawyer was typical in claiming he’d gone out of town for the weekend. “Kicking myself, I was. Kicking myself. But it was arranged before Christmas, so what can you do?” Relief, sympathy or any idea of fear were never mentioned.

By Wednesday Doyle realised that he seemed to be the only one of the four who’d noticed any white faces in the mob. For the others it was a race riot, pure and simple. For the sake of his arguments on Monday night - which he was proud of, and had re-played several times - he was glad that Pete and the Daves would never know what was said in the canteen that week.

He’d never been very sensitive to the standard-issue prejudices of the force - certainly not sensitive enough for Garrett. It was all talk as far as he was concerned, and he let it wash over him; action was what counted, and as for himself, he took people as they came. No extremes for him. Not like Pete. Pete thought all coppers were ... well, animals. Probably thought all gays and blacks were saints. Well, they weren’t. Some blacks he dealt with were OK. Some were shits.

Sometimes he felt they _were_ different. Not bad. Just that he didn’t really understand them. Same feeling as hitting a blank with Pete and the others that night. Anyway, he’d never felt enough of an expert on the subject to want to argue with the canteen.

This time it was different, and the canteen was missing an important point: it hadn’t been blacks against whites; it had been the angriest people in Brixton against the police. The more he thought about the idea the surer he became. It wasn’t just what he’d seen on the Saturday night - it was the reactions of other civilians. A lot of people seemed to think the police had had it coming. Garrett had been right, damn her.

He happened to think that the force was being made a scapegoat, that the anger was misdirected. But that itself was interesting and disturbing, and he wanted to talk about it to other people who were in a position to see all the complex sides of the problem. To other liberals, if that was what he was. He tried to start a discussion in the canteen, but no one was interested in what the public thought about the police. They would talk for hours, though, about what _they_ thought about wogs.

He started to cut his meal breaks short. He’d felt so proud of the force early on Sunday morning, but now that was slipping away. He was fed up with everyone: the inhabitants of Brixton, the members of “B” relief, his lover and friends. It probably wouldn’t last. It was just reaction. In the meantime he spent a lot of time out at the range, getting away from people.

Pete was in the middle of his school holidays, but he wasn’t suggesting they spend more time together. They could have met in the afternoon after earlies, but they didn’t. However, Doyle had Easter Monday off, and they watched a lot of videos.

On Tuesday morning Pete got up to get them coffee in bed. Doyle listened to him banging around in the kitchen, heard a low exclamation, and tensed, wondering if Pete had found the mugs. No, he’d hidden them at the top of the wardrobe, months before.

Pete had found something he’d totally forgotten about. He brought the tray of coffee and set it down on the table next to Doyle, then disappeared without a word. When he came back he was carrying a black box, and wearing a look almost of awe.

“I didn’t know you had any Lalique.”

Shrug. “Didn’t know you’d be interested.”

“Can I open it?”

Doyle hesitated. It had been - what? - almost exactly a year since he’d last looked at them. Stupid, anyway, to imagine that they’d _ever_ glowed with absorbed passion. They had no tales to tell.

“I’ll be careful. I’m not really as clumsy as Dave makes out.”

“Mmm? Oh, go ahead.” He stayed lying down, glancing idly over as Pete sat on the other side of the bed, and handled the box with a care he’d never brought to his pottery.

“Oh, God. The angel glasses.”

“Are they famous or something?”

Pete looked at him for long seconds. “You’d no idea what you were buying? That job _must_ pay well.”

“They’re just glasses. They were a present.”

A speculative frown. “How much do you think these cost?”

“Dunno. Never thought about it. Twenty quid, maybe. Thirty?” He’d rarely spent more than that on a present himself.

“Try three hundred.”

“For _glasses_?”

“Last time I went window-shopping these were seventy-five quid each.”

What could you say to that? _Oh, Bodie, you shouldn’t have_. Romantic Cliché Number 508. No, not fair. But he couldn’t deal with this right now, not with Pete here all wide-awake and expecting to be entertained.

“Do you use them much?”

A shake of the head.

“Well, can we get some champagne in sometime? When’s your birthday?” Something Bodie had never asked.

“End of May. The 28th.”

“Right. Oh, I suppose it’s in the middle of nights, or something stupid like that.”

“Nope. Start of a four-day leave. ‘s a Tuesday.”

“Great. Do you reckon we can cope with two bottles?”

“We can try.”

* * * * *

On Tuesday afternoon he arrived at the station particularly early, wanting to meet his new probationer before Woods or Sawyer got to him. But the boy arrived with the rest from the section house, and he only had a chance for a few words in the corridor before start-of-shift.

“You’re the new lad from Hendon, aren’t you. I’m PC Doyle, the Tutor Constable here. I’ll be showing you the ropes for the next six weeks.” He held out his hand. A slightly damp grip. Nerves, probably.

“Alec Hobbes. I mean, PC Hobbes.”

“You settled into the section house OK?”

“Oh, yeah. Well ...” Doyle listened, nodding, as the boy described the move, and the mates who’d joined the other reliefs. Not a very impressive specimen, really. Tall, but in that awkward, gangling way, as if he had more body than his brain could cope with, and the extremities didn’t always get all the supervision they needed. Irritatingly pale colouring, with nothing for your eyes to pick out. And a very knobbly skull, especially at the back, which was only emphasised by the cap-like cut of his short blond hair. The helmet would only make that worse. A boy who would be well-advised to get into plain-clothes as soon as possible.

But the next few weeks showed that dramatic career movement for Hobbes would be unlikely. Not that he was an idiot, or even the worst Doyle had tutored, just young and boring. After a whole day in his company, Doyle would find himself restless, and eager for someone he could really talk to. Not that he was spoiled for choice. Never had been.

Mike. Bodie. Garrett. Ann. Not a cheering list.

At the moment Pete was the best he could do, and he certainly did appreciate Pete during the first week of Hobbes, even though he wasn’t able to mention the boy at all. It was nice timing, with Doyle on lates, and Pete still on holiday: a quick dive into bed, and then a slow breakfast. The next week - of nights - he visited just for breakfast.

On the Sunday morning Pete answered the door in his dressing gown and led Doyle upstairs. After the sex, they lay talking idly, both drowsy, though from different ends of sleep.

“Back to work tomorrow,” Pete said with a sigh.

“Dunno what you’re complaining about. I only get a month off in a whole year.”

“Mmm. You made any plans for this year?”

Shake of the head. “Hadn’t thought about it.”

A few minutes later, Pete returned to the subject. “How about going away for a couple of weeks in the summer?”

Doyle was surprised to hear Pete seeking so much of his company. “Mmm. Like where?”

“France? Dave’s parents’ve got a hovel in Brittany. They’ll let us stay there for nothing if we do a bit of gardening. We could take your car.”

“Umm.” He thought about it. “Yeah. OK.”

“When d’you fancy? Any time in the school holidays would do me.”

Doyle stared at the ceiling, visualising a calendar for the summer. “End of July, beginning of August,” he said firmly, almost grimly. That would get him away from London at the time when it had all come to an end with Bodie. Stop him brooding too much.

“Fine. I’ll get Dave to check it with his parents. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

By the Monday evening pottery class, they had permission, and Doyle booked his fortnight’s leave with his inspector first thing on Friday morning. He also booked the weekend of the Gay Pride march. It was the only way out. He’d been saying “Yeah, great” whenever Pete and the Daves assumed he’d march with the usual “Stallions” bunch. This left him nearly two months to think up a suitable last-minute emergency at the club.

* * * * *

Pete didn’t forget Doyle’s birthday at the end of May. The birthday itself was on a Thursday, but they’d decided to wait till the Friday for their champagne celebration. Pete had taken the effort to send a card separately, though, so that it arrived on the Thursday morning. Doyle wondered if this was a sign that Pete was getting ... “soppy” about him after all, but it didn’t show in anything other than these occasional acts of attention. If he announced that he was dropping Pete for ... someone else, Pete would just shrug and forget about him. There would be no scene, no pleas. Pete felt just the same way _he_ did.

A glossy book of muscle-men photographs was Pete’s present to him, and a bottle of champagne, which he matched. He flicked through the book, picking some pictures out for exaggerated appreciation, which was what he was sure Pete expected. He controlled his face carefully as he skimmed, lest he should find something too close to Bodie. But they were all tanned and sporty and uncomplicated. They affected only one part of him.

It was a good evening, and got him used to the idea of being thirty-one. Pete was twenty-seven. Two years younger than Bodie. If you saw the three of them together, would you get the order right? Doyle thought not.

Sitting up in bed with Pete, drinking from those glasses ... It seemed Pete wasn’t going to ask who they’d been a present from, probably guessed it was the “friend of the dusty toothbrush”. And Pete seemed to find no resemblance between his lover and the face on the glasses, or none worth commenting on.

Doyle had expected to find pain in the experience, expected it to bring memories. There were some, of course, but Pete didn’t give him a chance to dwell on them. And mostly they were memories of warmth. They had been happy, the two of them. And then it had gone. Of course it had. They were human and that is how things happen. But still, they _had_ been happy, and on that night the glasses were a reminder simply of that.

After the birthday weekend, Pete returned to his usual casual self. They fitted one another in around shifts and squash matches and parents’ evenings, made easier than usual that June because Doyle’s one-day weekly leaves all fell on a Sunday.

Doyle was up and dressed on the second Sunday long before Pete was due round. It was a glorious day. Go to the Heath. Have a pub lunch. Maybe they’d be allowed to practise their gardening at Highgate Cemetery. If Pete didn’t insist on staying in and watching videos.

He put “The Four Seasons” on and opened the windows wide. Maybe he was odd, but he felt the moods of nature _more_ keenly here in London than he ever had as a kid in the countryside. There was a large patch of sunlight revealing unexpected colours in the carpet, and he lay in it, eyes closed, waiting for Pete.

The doorbell rang. He levered himself up and sauntered to the door, totally relaxed.

“Jesus. You look so fucking normal. You bastard.”

“Wha- ? Pete?”

“How long d’you think you could get away with it? Bet Ray Doyle isn’t even your real name.”

“What are you talking about?” He was backing away from Pete’s fury, retreating along the corridor.

Pete slammed the door. “That’s not going to work any more. I _know_ you’ve been lying to me. All along. You’re really sick, Ray. Or whatever your name is.”

His first thought was, _How did he find out?_ But he couldn’t ask that yet. It _might_ just be a misunderstanding. Frowning, and sounding puzzled, he stood his ground in the lobby area and said, “What do you think I’ve been lying to you about?”

“Everything. The club. Who you are. All I know for sure is that you live here and you like being fucked.”

He shook his head, and lifted his hands in a half-shrug. “What brought this on?”

“If you must know, I tried to ‘phone you at work yesterday, t’see if you wanted to go to a late-night thing at the Ritzy. They’d never heard of you.”

“How could you ‘phone? I never gave you the number.”

“Never heard of ‘Yellow Pages’?”

“You got the wrong one.”

“No. Don’t think so. This one was open 24-hours a day. Can’t be too many of those around. And you had to pick your story up from somewhere. And don’t tell me it’s a security precaution. I’m a teacher - I’ve heard all _kinds_ of excuses. And the lot at the club weren’t trying any. They were very helpful. Put me through to Personnel and everything. And they’d honestly never heard of any Ray Doyle.”

Doyle had opened his mouth halfway through Pete’s speech. He kept it open for some moments after Pete finished. Then he closed it.

“So who _are_ you then? Or what’s the next story you’re going to try on me? Let me guess - you’re a gay secret-agent working deep undercover. Or, no, a _straight_ one working even deeper.”

No way out. “I’m a constable at the local nick.”

“All this time?”

“Fifteen years.”

“ _Jesus_. Well, none of us guessed anything as sordid as that. In my books that’s bestiality, you know.”

“I’ll let you get away with that just this once,” Doyle said through his teeth. “I shouldn’t have lied to you. I wasn’t trying to make a fool of you, it just seemed the best thing to do. I’m sorry, but be reasonable about it.”

“Hah! Reasonable? You’re the enemy. You’re on the same side as James Anderton and the Vice Squad and those bastards at Stonewall. And to think I gave you the benefit of the doubt and called you a liberal.”

“Oh, come on, Pete. You _seen_ every inch of me. I’m just another bloke. Doing just another job.”

“You _know_ you don’t believe that. Deep down you’re ashamed to be a copper, or why would you lie to all of us that first time at Eva’s class? Christ, how d’you live with yourself? You must lie to _everyone_. The other pigs, me, Dave, Eva, _everyone_. Even yourself most of the time, I bet.”

“Go away, Pete.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not staying. Just wanted to see you admit it. Dave said I should out you. But I think it’s worse to leave you as you are. I’ll not see you do this to another bloke, though. If I see you with anyone else, _anywhere_ , I’m gonna come straight up to him and tell him what you are. So will Dave and Mark and the others. You’ll have to go back to cottaging, constable.”

“Big deal. Get out.”

But Pete was already gone.

Doyle was shaking. He went jerkily back to the sitting room, supporting himself on walls and furniture, then fell into his patch of sunshine as if he’d just been filleted.

He’d never really imagined that Pete would find out. There had been plans for the danger-times, but none whatsoever for this. He hadn’t even seriously imagined finishing with Pete - not as an event that _would_ happen at some point in the future.

His social life had just disappeared in the space of five minutes. He was back where he’d started in August. Maybe it was even worse this time round, because he was totally unprepared. And he’d lost more than just Pete - he’d lost his door into another world.

What was he going to do? For sex. For friendship. For any life of his own?

He felt as if he’d tried everything. Being a copper, and not being a copper. Women, and men. Squash, pottery, shooting, the pubs.

Nothing was perfect, nothing worked for good.

And whatever he did, he _was_ going to have to lie. Even if he stuck to blonde, busty police groupies in the future, he would have to censor his life. No one would _ever_ accept him as he was, except perhaps another gay copper. Too dangerous even to think of finding one of those.

 _Bodie spoilt me for anyone else._ It was true, though that made it sound like an advert, and it wasn’t as simple as that. _Before him, I was happy with police groupies, and air stewardesses and Australian temps passing through on their world tour. I don’t think I can go back to that. I’ve lost my knack with small talk._

_And I’ve lost my sense of adventure. What’s the point in going through all the effort of searching? Bodie said once, when we in bed, nearly asleep, “I know I’ll never love like this again. This is my ration.” Everything since then has proved it. Of course it has. It’s just not possible that ... God - or whoever - would make more than one person who could love me like that. I’ve had my ration. There’s nothing else out there._

What was he arguing, then? That he shouldn’t have left Bodie? That he hadn’t known when he was well off?

No. He hadn’t gone so far that he’d forgotten why he’d left. They’d been a disaster all along the line. There was no way they could have stayed together.

_But I made such a fuss about leaving him so I could get on with my life. And look at it. Is this the best I can do?_

_Yes, he changed some things for me and of course I couldn’t just go back to the way things were before. But I used to think I was so bloody resourceful. “Oh, Ray can cope with anything.” Except my own life, apparently. Can’t get any part of it to go right. ‘cept the basic coppering. Everything else is letting me down. Or I’m letting_ it _down. Dunno._

 _Shouldn’t have lied to Pete. Shitty thing to do. Bet they’re rallying round him. All gathered at the house for a Ray-Doyle’s-A-Lying-Pig-Bastard Party. But it never bothered me much when I was doing it. Not like with Alison. But then with Alison I could blame it all on Bodie. Wasn’t_ my _responsibility._

_Bodie took so much from me. In pretty-well every sense. Stood still and uncomplaining under my insults and sulks. Relieved me of worries and horrors and blame._

_He took my virginity. And then my heart. Neither any use to him. Losing the second hurt most. Don’t think it’ll ever stop._

He groaned and rolled onto his face, spread-eagled on the itchy carpet.

 _All this year I’ve been saying, “It’ll get better. It’ll get better.” And it doesn’t. Is today a preview of the rest of my life? Lying. And getting found out. Thinking I’ve found a home, and then getting sent back to the orphanage when they find a kid they_ really _like. Dreaming about Mum, about Bodie. The Lost._

“Oh, Go-o-o-od.” _And I used to accuse Bodie of being over-dramatic. ‘s shock, I think. Just trying to avoid thinking about Pete. “Bestiality.” Little shit. No way do I deserve that._

_Should know better than trying to think about all this now. Far too soon. Get up. Get out. It’ll sort itself out in a few days._

He clambered to his knees, and then to his feet, and stood rubbing at the carpet-mark on his face. _Might as well stick to my original plans for the day. Don’t need Pete for any of that. He wouldn’t have gone for the gardening, anyway._

“Ah.” Gardening. Brittany would be off. Well, there were other places for a holiday. He could go back to the West Country or something.

The scene with Pete had flooded his veins with adrenalin, and his skin with sweat. Nasty, indoor sweat, when he’d been looking forward to the outdoor kind. He took another shower then left for the walk to the Heath, jacket slung over his shoulder, sunglasses perched on his nose.

* * * * *

It didn’t sort itself out in a few days. His thoughts stayed on Bodie, almost ignoring Pete. Of course, that was only because at this time of year practically every day was a grim anniversary. He measured them by the nearest day of the week, not by the date. For him, that whole week of nights was a twin to the one week of holiday he and Bodie had spent together. He remembered every day of it as if it had been a month ago, not a year.

The weather was nearly identical. Cloudless skies. Then rain on Thursday. In 1980 the rain had sent them to the Tate. Bad choice. Bodie had looked so lost there. He could recognise that now. If he’d been more ... observant then, would it have saved them? Who knows? Mostly the whole sequence seemed inevitable.

He stayed in the flat all day, barely stirring from the armchair in the bedroom, watching the lines of water on the window-pane. He could have gone out. He could have put some music on. But he forced himself to sit and be still, and to face the memories full-on. He wouldn’t even close his eyes to blink away the tears. They gathered and fell and dried on his face, and he ignored them.

This was for Bodie. It was all he could offer him now. A pilgrimage to an unmarked grave. If he could have placed a stone, what would it say? “Hope”? “Promises to a Sleeping Child”? Not “Love”, though. That had survived, dragging them on to something even worse.

How long would it take before he had a true perspective on all that had happened between them, all it meant? It was like a city underwater, hidden by circling fish. He would catch fleeting glimpses of a rotting car, a pub-sign waving in the current. Small clues, for something so large and strange.

Sometimes, it seemed, he would be looking straight at something, and simply not recognise it - maybe even mistake it for a fish or a frond of seaweed. Obvious things, sometimes.

Only today, for instance, did he realise why he’d lain, silent, that first time in Pete’s room, thinking confusedly about betrayal and the clock of history. His subconscious mind had been standing over the grave all along, trying to protect it from sand-storms and trampling feet. It had wanted him to make a shrine of his own life, with solemn spaces in it for the night in Brija and for that terrible Thursday. The two would face one another from opposite sides of the arched dome. The beginning. And the end.

It was fitting. He could see that now.

It wasn’t a matter of nerve endings and some arithmetic of pleasure. For Pete it might be. For Mark. But not for him or Bodie.

All the other times had eroded and cheapened the True pair: the shrine opened to the elements; plywood copies hawked from village to village. It had taken him this long to realise what he’d done.

Could he repair the damage? No. But he could stop it getting worse. No more copies. Leave the pair in silence and in peace. Nerve-endings were for a few years. This was for eternity.

* * * * *

The next day it rained again. He put on an old hooded anorak and ran around and around Regent’s Park, resenting its mindless beauty and colour, wishing for autumn.

He’d half-expected that during the night he’d have had one of his mood-swings. But yesterday’s decision still seemed sound. For the rest of his life? People had dedicated themselves to things far more trivial. He knew what he was doing.

* * * * *

He ran a lot over the weeks that followed. Ran, and walked. On the weekend of the march he drove to the Fens, and wandered aimlessly for hours, forgetting to eat, and returning to the farmhouse long after dark. The TV in the pub was tuned to the news, but there was no mention of the march.

At the lockers on Monday, though, Hobbes was still boggling audibly. He’d had a sheltered upbringing. Doyle raised his eyebrows at him, obviously bored. “Takes all sorts. Get used to it.” Woods had a different message, as you’d expect. Doyle changed in silence, and was glad to spend most of the shift on his own.

On Wednesday morning he played squash with Woods, and was beaten soundly.

“Not much fight in you today, eh?”

“I’m an old man. Gotta make allowances.” He didn’t know why he’d arranged the match, anyway, except it was difficult to say no to Woods. “You got a date for your driver’s course yet?”

“Uh huh. Saxton said I might not get it. They’re targeting operators at the moment.”

“Oh. Well, you wouldn’t want to do that. ‘s a passenger’s job.”

“Well, ‘s better than nothing. All experience, isn’t it? Anyway, I wouldn’t turn it down.”

“Mmm.” No danger, really. He’d probably move to another relief or, better still, another division. MacKenzie had got himself pretty well installed.

“Coming to the pub tonight? Hobbes is buying.”

“He lost a bet or something?”

“Nah. ‘s his birthday.”

“Oh.” First he’d heard of it. “’King’s Head’ is it?”

“What? No, we went off that ages ago. Got too touristy. ‘s the ‘Norfolk’. ‘bout seven. Prob’ly end up at my place.”

“OK. Well, if I’m around.”

“What you got planned for the day, then? You still seeing that bird Terry set you up with?”

“No. She’s left town.”

“Bit drastic, eh? You know Terry’s engaged?”

“To Barbara?”

“Dunno her name. Red-head. OK if you like them chubby.”

“Barbara. When’d they get engaged?”

Shrug. “Told me three ... four weeks ago.”

A nod. He’d had no idea that Woods kept in touch with West. Maybe he _should_ go to the pub. You had to catch up with gossip sometimes, or you’d end up looking like an idiot.

It was a lousy evening. Half the relief was there, including Stone and MacKenzie. A good turnout for a new boy. He came home determined never to search for gossip again, regardless of the perils of ignorance.

He didn’t know how they all managed to enjoy themselves so much. The conversations were so relentlessly trivial. There was none he _wanted_ to join in, even if the groups would make an opening for him. He downed two slow pints, drifting from huddle to huddle, barely saying a word.

Stone and MacKenzie spent the evening propped against the bar, talking away as if they didn’t spend half the year in one another’s company. Doyle stole glances at them from the middle of the floor, remembering MacKenzie’s nothing-better-to-do shrug when he’d come round for coffee just before the riots.

How had he stood hours and hours of all this in the past? Hard drink, probably. Youthful absence of critical standards. But it had been less than a year ago that he’d sat in the bay window of Woods’ flat with his fourth can balanced on his knee, and thought “I’m glad to be here.” He’d watched Sawyer pratting away without feeling this need to tape his mouth up. He’d thought Woods was OK.

The problem was that he’d grown up these last few months, and they hadn’t, despite Brixton. Maybe that made them seem even more trivial: he _knew_ they’d seen the things that he’d seen, and to them it had been just entertainment and overtime. And, to be fair, July was a sad and private month for him, and any social gathering would seem just so much noise. He shouldn’t have come.

MacKenzie headed around the corner to the gent’s, and Stone eased himself away from the bar.

“Ray. How you doing? Still keeping on with the shooting?”

“Once in a while. Weather like this, though, seems a shame to be indoors. I save the range for winter.”

“Mmm. You get back on the team?”

A sharp glance. Did they all think he’d been chucked off it, or something? He shrugged. “I’ll see how I feel when the time comes. ‘s a lot of work, you know.”

“Yeah, I guess it must be. You never thought of applying for the Firearms Squad?”

Puzzled frown. “I used to be _in_ it. Don’t you remember? When it was a part-time thing.”

“Yeah, I remember you getting your picture in the paper. You could have tried for the proper Squad, though, couldn’t you? You were good enough.”

Good enough? He was the best. Was this a deliberate wind-up? “They offered me a place on the Squad when it was set up, but I didn’t fancy it.”

“Why not?”

Now there were real reasons, and there were pub reasons. “How many shootings _are_ there in London each week? Think about it. The Squad’s 99% bum-work. I decided to stick with leg-work.”

MacKenzie was back. He and Stone coordinated the next round, and stayed at the bar once the drinks had been handed out. Doyle stared down at his half. Why hadn’t he just said, “No, thanks, I’ve got to be off”? It went against the grain to turn down a free drink. Mustn’t get caught in the next one.

He paced himself carefully, drinking at twice the speed of Woods, and left as soon as he was finished, bidding goodbye to anyone who bothered to turn round.

* * * * *

The first week in July was all late shift. Another week of nights and then he’d be back in the car again. He’d never felt less about the change. Hard to believe that six months ago he’d been blaming the beat for the fact that his life wasn’t running smoothly, and had pinned all his hopes on a lump of metal. Now ...

No one to blame but himself, and no magical event ahead. There was his fortnight’s holiday, but he’d decided sometime on that rainy Thursday that he must not use it to escape. It would be another pilgrimage.

Fate _must_ be at work here. The pattern was too perfect for chance. For a year he’d been trying to hide, but now it was over. In picking the timing of the holiday he’d been trying to hide from Bodie, but because he’d been hiding from Pete all along, his escape route had turned into a circle. There was no kindness in this, but there was a horrible beauty, and there was peace, of sorts, in taking his place in the pattern.

The pattern threaded its way through the days.

On the first Monday in the month, he returned to the street where the dog had died. The house was no longer there, replaced by a featureless slab that covered half the block. The children were a year older, running wild in the streets under the baking sun. They stopped and stared at him, then carried on shrieking. There was a call for him on the radio, but he ignored it.

He’d see the owner in the street in the mornings, but the man didn’t seem to recognise him anymore. Jasper had been replaced almost immediately, by an aggressive, short-haired beast that reminded Doyle irresistibly of Woods. It barked at anything that moved, and hated children. It would probably die of old age.

The road outside the owner’s flat. He didn’t believe in ghosts, not really, but he did believe in human passion, in the energy that people poured into their lives. It couldn’t be right that emotions could just ... disappear, like mist when the sun got up. They must leave scorch-marks on _something_.

A year ago he’d sat here and _known_ that Bodie was dead. There were scorch-marks inside his head, if nowhere else. The feeling was still there, partly a memory, and partly fresh, unaffected by the fact that Bodie had been asleep at home all the time.

Maybe someone else would find the whole thing odd - a bit mad, possibly. He remembered thinking that a week or so afterwards, when he knew he was fully recovered. But to him it still seemed perfectly understandable, maybe even inevitable, given what he and Bodie had been to each other.

It was after five thirty. People were starting to come home. He moved off into the maze of side-streets, not wanting to bump into Jasper’s owner. That was how he would always think of him, no matter how many more dogs appeared at the end of that leash. As he was starting - these days - to think of himself as “Bodie’s lover”, no matter that it was over and others might sleep on Bodie’s side of his bed. Being in love with Bodie - he’d never stopped, not for an instant - that was the most important thing about Raymond Doyle.

He passed a ‘phone box. A year ago, almost exactly, he’d called Bodie’s flat, expecting ... not Bodie. _If I called him now? Don’t think he’d still be living there. Probably get Lucas. Or a Jewish widow who’s never_ heard _of CI5._

 _I can’t call him, anyway_.

He wanted to. Very much. To sleep just once more in that little cluttered bedroom with the double-doors and the balcony. To touch his naked body to Bodie’s. Just once more.

He closed his eyes, and rubbed the back of his hand slowly against his forehead.

_It wouldn’t be fair to him. Even if he didn’t slam the ‘phone down. And I don’t think he would, if he thought I needed him. He had no defence against me. None at all._

_Sometimes I knew that, even then. I used it. I used him. Without thinking what it was costing him._

_When I went back to him. Last year. It tore him to pieces. Hoping. And knowing I’d leave. I think ..._ Sudden realisation. _... that’s what he was crying about in his sleep all those nights. About me._

_I brought him to that. Going back just for ... comfort. Taking him to bed. Getting him to fuck me._

_I broke all the rules I’d set. So he had no idea where he stood. Was I_ trying _to punish him? Sub-consciously? To show him just how unfair life can be? As if he didn’t already know that, far better than me. He even told me, so many times. “I don’t deserve you.” He was always saying that. And I always shrugged it off as just another line. I_ never _listened properly when he told me what it was like to be him._

 _I_ would _appreciate him more now. I would. But it wouldn’t be enough. I can’t call him._

Unconsciously, he shook his head rapidly for two seconds, agreeing with himself.

_I want to see him. But I never will._

When he finally returned to the station for his meal break, he found the only topic of conversation was the news of another riot, this time in Liverpool. Some place called Toxteth. All the reports were very confused.

Was Brixton going to flare up again? Nothing much left to burn, but they might find a few cars from somewhere. Most of “B” Relief were hoping it would happen before the end of the shift - still annoyed at missing out last time. Though what were the chances of any of them seeing action? The new Immediate Response Units would get in there first. Some jammy sods in “C” Relief had been posted to the District’s IRU. “C” Relief again. As if they hadn’t had their fair share the last time.

Doyle sat in the middle of all the noise, picking at his pie, eyes flicking from side to side as if he was following the various conversations. He understood that he might have to go to Brixton again, but that was about all.

 _No. Please. Leave me alone. I can’t do it again. Not today. Can’t face people throwing stones._ An image of a small footprint in a half-demolished room. He swallowed hard, closing his eyes briefly as he did so. _Just want to be quiet. Go home and remember Bodie making me calm. Loving me. Taking all the horrors away. That’s more important than any bloody job._

He was out on the street again well before his forty-five minutes were up. The shift ended with Brixton still calm. While the rest of the relief piled down the pub, Doyle went home and thought about Bodie.

* * * * *

The trouble in Toxteth only lasted one night. Maybe the idea of work the next morning was inhibiting people. The people of Coventry, Birmingham and Wolverhampton learnt the lesson and held their riots over the weekend, and they kept going from Friday till Sunday, just like Brixton’s.

Doyle had stopped reading a newspaper some months before, but you couldn’t miss the front pages. Rows of crouching coppers behind shields - in broad daylight - under the headline “CAN THIS BE BRITAIN?” Doyle knew full well that it could. How was Garrett these days? Smug? Or sad? He no longer felt the urge to talk to her about the riots. In fact, he no longer felt anything about the riots except exhaustion.

London was holding steady. God knows why - the summer was as long and hot as you could wish for. A lot of the Met’s IRUs were being sent up north. Bet they’d set up even more when this was over.

_They wouldn’t post me to one. Would they? Leave the relief without a Tutor and with only one driver? Could I refuse?_

_* * * * *_

He was on nights during the riots and for the days after, but was barely aware of the aftermath and discussions this time. He had a sense of impending doom, which was stupid really, since the worst had already long happened.

_I never thanked him for what he did for me then. Never told him that just the thought of him was enough to calm me. If I had? If I’d told him that he was the centre of my world? Shown him the same patience that he showed me? What would have happened in the weeks after Jasper died?_

_It all went so bad, so quickly. Less than a week for him to heal me completely, and then I started to draw away, and I did nothing at all to reassure him. I_ knew _how he felt about me. Not all, maybe, but enough._

_His heart was breaking. And all I cared about was getting a decent night’s sleep, and that he wasn’t making enough of a fuss of me in bed. And I wasn’t prepared to see it through or sort it out. Just kept thinking about how depressed I was, as if that was the most important thing in the world._

_I wonder if he realises yet what I did to him? Not just at the end, but ... all along. Did I give him any reason not to hate me?_

He was patrolling the streets in the middle of the night, on his own. Or maybe not quite alone. His lips moved from time to time, as if he was talking to someone.

 _Bodie, it wasn’t all wasted, your loving me. It changed me. Made me more human. I was cold, and you warmed me. Did you get_ anything _from me? Can you even bear to think of me? Or have I become another nightmare?_

He was out on his own most nights, avoiding the canteen, talking to people only when he was paid to. Tuesday’s call to a domestic disturbance was typical. He listened to both sides with an utter lack of expression and eventually they convinced one another that they _could_ come to a compromise, and they’d work on it in the morning. He nodded, warned them that he’d be staying in the area, and if they started again one or both would be going to the station, and turned to let himself out. A dark-haired boy, who must have been watching the whole exchange from the door of the sitting room, was edging up the stairs. He looked about eight, skinny in his bright-red pyjamas. They stared at one another for some seconds, then Doyle was gone, the slam of the door echoing across the road.

* * * * *

After that night he had his four-day weekly leave. He stayed inside much of the time, lying on the sitting-room floor, thinking about Bodie or about nothing at all. On Thursday and Friday he went running, very early in the morning when the city seemed almost empty - the sight of people bustling around was starting to irritate him. So much relentless activity. Why couldn’t they just stop?

On Friday he rented a couple of videos and watched them straight through, though the next day he couldn’t have said what they were.

While he was re-winding the first, he saw a bit of the BBC news. There’d been police raids in Brixton on Wednesday and Thursday nights. Over five hundred officers involved. Looking for petrol bombers, it said.

Everyone was reacting with complete predictability. The locals complained, the police insisted, the media asked whether this would spark another riot. So far the streets were quiet. Doyle turned the sound down.

If he looked at the black screen of the sitting-room window, he could see his personal petrol-bomber, clear as his own reflection. Clearer, really, than any single sight he’d had of the man in the flickering orange light through his scratched, treacle-smeared shield. A composite image. Frozen with his arm drawn back, matted hair flying out like ribbons on a maypole, mouth open wide.

He drew the curtains, and the image faded until he could ignore it. So exhaustion _wasn’t_ the only emotion left from the riots. There was a thunk as the tape finished re-winding. He put the second tape in and left it to play through the trailers while he got himself a drink.

On Saturday he thought of going to the range, but the streets were too busy, and he couldn’t face the drive. Sunday afternoon, maybe, if he was still in the mood after his first shift in the car.

* * * * *

“Just a week, isn’t it, and then you’re off on holiday?”

“’s right.”

“Hmm. Stone was saying it’s hardly worth changing over now. Simplest if we kept the car until you came back.”

So MacKenzie and Stone were “we”. But not MacKenzie and Doyle. “Well, you know the force. Once they’ve worked out a system they keep to it whatever happens.”

“Yeah. Where you going? Somewhere hot?”

“Huh. How hot does Kentish Town _get_?”

“You’re not going away?” Open surprise. “Don’t you feel like having a real break sometimes?”

A shrug. He wasn’t allowed a break, but that was between him and Bodie. None of MacKenzie’s business.

He didn’t go to the range in the afternoon after all. It was a beautiful sunny day, with just enough breeze to keep the heat comfortable and to mix the neighbourhood’s smells so that nothing was ... _quite_ identifiable. Garrett used to do a lot of deep breathing on days like that, declaring after each exhalation that it didn’t smell like England. From any copper but Garrett that would have been a complaint. She wanted people to start dancing in the streets.

MacKenzie whistled “Beach Boys” numbers until Doyle snapped at him to stop it. He’d raised an eyebrow, but kept silent for the rest of the shift. A couple of times he forgot for the duration of a few bars, but he caught himself with a “Sorry” before Doyle could complain. He was probably thinking that Doyle’s holiday was long overdue.

A drive south to the range through all this bare skin and brightness was out of the question. He was well aware that his resentment came out of his depression, but since the depression was totally logical, then the resentment must be too. Instead, he went home and cleaned his gun.

The good weather held until Wednesday, and then clouded over. It was easier to bear during the week, anyway. Work soured people’s mood.

There hadn’t been any riots for nearly two weeks, but the subject was rarely out of the news. Doyle tried to ignore it all, but the station talked of little else. It was taken for granted that the public enquiry was biased against the police, and every report of the proceedings was examined for confirmation of this. Medland thought it was a bloody disgrace that blacks were even being allowed to testify: “For Christ’s sake, they’ve just _shown_ they’re not _fit_ to be part of a civilised country. Scarman’s crazy if he listens to them.”

Finally the week came to an end. In the locker-room on Friday afternoon, MacKenzie said, “Well, have a good holiday. Take it easy, eh?”

Doyle nodded, unsmiling, turned the key in his locker, and went home.


	20. Heat-Trace - Chapter 18

## Chapter 18

Now he found that he was measuring things by the date, not the day of the week. It had finished on the last day in July. That was what he remembered, more than the fact that it had been a Sunday. This year it was a Friday, but that didn’t matter.

He became almost nocturnal. It felt better. Between four and five in the mornings he went running. He went because it hurt, because he needed the discipline. Usually the only people he’d see were other coppers. The area car tooted at him in recognition, and he was forced to raise a hand in return. If it happened again he’d think about driving to another patch for his run.

During the day he’d lie or sit in the bedroom or the living room, falling asleep sometimes for a few hours at a time. He’d have a book open in his lap - usually the Joseph Wambaugh he’d been in the middle of when he met Pete - but he never turned a page.

That was the beginning of the week, which he remembered mostly as a deepening depression. They’d been trying hard at the weekends, hadn’t they? But only at getting out and about, keeping busy, pretending nothing was going wrong, when they should have been talking and loving. He’d been frightened, he remembered, of just a little extra pain. How had he ever got the idea that he wasn’t a coward?

* * * * *

And then it was Thursday, the 30th.

_“You’re gay, aren’t you, Ray?”_

Even at this distance, the words affected his heartbeat. Flight-response. Self-preservation. Why such fear? Maybe he wasn’t so different from Bodie?

If that was true, why had he fought so hard for that trip to “Stallions”? _Did I really want to go? Or was it just a power thing, about getting_ him _to agree to go even though he knew it was dangerous, even though he obviously didn’t want to?_ It had started out simple, after clubbing with Alison, and then got more and more complicated and nasty, as everything seemed to with them.

Garrett hadn’t believed him, _anyway_. Had she despised him for lying?

_Oh_. He’d never thought of it before, had only imagined her being embarrassed. Until recently he’d never thought of people judging him and finding any fault. Maybe that was why she’d stopped liking him, stopped talking to him.

Self-preservation. Big deal, when you considered what he’d preserved himself for: Carol, Pete, Brixton, letting down the shooting team, seeing Garrett resign. Hardly a year worth lying for.

_“You’re gay, aren’t you, Ray?”_

“Yes.” A whisper. “I’m in love with a man. I’m in love with Bodie. I couldn’t hide it, could I? From anyone except him.”

He could ‘phone Garrett now. Make up for the lies.

But he wouldn’t.

How could she understand the love that _he_ was talking about? It was a special, private tragedy. No spectators. Even Doyle didn’t know the full story. Just his own. Bodie’s he was still guessing.

He shouldn’t even have thought about it. But he kept on trying to dodge his responsibilities, trying to involve someone else. No more. Turn and face it full-on. Deal with it alone. No one helped Bodie on those nights. Remember that.

The end of the argument. He sighed and closed his eyes, feeling truly calm for the first time in days. This must be what people meant when they talked about fate. He had found his path again.

* * * * *

The calm and peace lasted all evening. Back on the path. He could almost feel the firmness of the ground under his feet. So different from the past year.

When had he stepped off the path?

Good question.

That last time he’d fucked Bodie? Or maybe even the first time? Any one of those moments when he _could_ have tried to make Bodie feel loved, but had held back, punishing Bodie for a past no one could change?

No. Not any of those times with Bodie. All that had been inevitable. He’d been wrong about many things, but not about that. All part of the heat-trace. Cruel, though, even for fate.

It had been afterwards that he’d got hopelessly lost. He’d tried to ignore the pain, get it out of his system.

For six months he’d barely let himself think of Bodie, except as a peril from which he’d escaped ... just in time, thanks to his own courage and determination. Something not to be dwelt on.

Then after six months he’d met Pete, and the memories started to come back. And he let them in because he felt safe, well away from the danger, even able to turn and face the past, knowing it couldn’t reach him.

Oh yes, safe. Making a real success of his life. Lying to his lover. Risking his job. Wonderful.

Safe in a fool’s paradise. He must have been ... out of his mind. Really. In shock, probably, until Pete’s fury started to shake him out of it.

He nodded to himself. It all made sense. He wouldn’t make the same mistakes again. No thoughts now of putting Bodie behind him and getting on with some glorious future. He just wanted to do right by Bodie in all the ways that were still left to him.

* * * * *

It was after midnight. It was Friday, the last day of July. Sleep seemed pointless. At two he changed into his tracksuit and trainers and left the flat. But he didn’t break into a run. He just walked south, keeping to the quiet roads no one bothered to patrol, until he was safely out of the division.

The last time he’d been on Waterloo Bridge, he’d been heading for Brixton. The city was brightly lit, even at three in the morning. A plaque fixed to the railings had a tracing of the skyline, with arrows and labels. He knew it all, anyway. Felt as if he’d always known it.

London was beautiful. Even on this day he could not help but admire it. If only it was always as empty as this ... Just him and the stone and the metal and the river. During the day its people drove him indoors, to close the curtains and shut out even the sight of them.

He retraced his steps over the bridge, and then walked east along the Embankment. The Tower was far enough.

It was a long way home. By the time he got back to the division, the early shift had started. The market was setting up. He kept to the same quiet streets, and no one recognised him, or cared to claim acquaintance.

Close the curtains. Make a pot of tea. Bodie had been the great tea drinker. He didn’t bother with breakfast. It was a long time since he’d felt positively hungry.

Near midday, his eyelids started drooping, and he fell asleep in the armchair, waking three hours later with an aching neck. The room was hot and stuffy. His armpits smelt like a zoo. He slid the window fully open and then went to take a shower.

Afterwards he stood in front of the wardrobe in his Y-fronts. What to wear? Not usually a critical question for a summer night in, but tonight he wasn’t really alone.

_Same as then. Why not?_

The jade-green T-shirt. The jeans. He took the leather jacket off its hanger, but just held it, didn’t put it on. The lining was grimy. Maybe a hint of zoo up close. Not surprising considering the life it had led. Never been cleaned. No one had complained - yet, but he’d better take care of it. Next week it would go to Sketchleys or wherever was nearest.

He sat on the edge of the bed, the jacket on his lap. With his skin clean and slightly pink, he felt ready to go out, waiting for something. Same as last year. A day of weekly leave, and nothing planned for it except dinner at Bodie’s.

Pathetic that he couldn’t remember every second of that evening. Maybe it was actually all there in his sub-conscious mind. The sub-conscious was supposed to do that, wasn’t it? Store away everything that had ever happened to you. Only it used some hellish filing system that no one could work, not even you.

He could remember ... kissing in the kitchen ... sitting on the settee with a gin-and-tonic ... getting up to turn the record over. Actions not words. Until ... something about Bodie’s gestures reminded him of Ruth, and he’d interrupted with a casual mention of the night before. The real memories started from there.

* * * * *

Pete and the Daves would have found the whole scene hilarious. They were connoisseurs of exit lines, collecting them from films and from the reports of break-ups among their friends and acquaintances. “Get some therapy!” was a catch-phrase in their flat, delivered in a particular tone of derision and impatience. Doyle had simply not understood it at first. Physiotherapy, did they mean? Finally he worked it out. It was a cheap cliché - in some circles.

He’d meant to help though. Truly. Did that excuse him at all? He’d thought that it was ... understood between them that he knew about Bodie’s father. That he’d known all along.

_I mean, with nightmares that noisy. Anyone would have worked it out. How was I to know he’d react like that?_

_Should have had some idea, shouldn’t you, from the way he always just curled up on himself afterwards, refused to talk? D’you think he was just gonna laugh, like you’d called his bluff, and ask for the number of the nearest Group?_

He shook his head, face creased in pain.

_Didn’t think at all. Or only about yourself, as usual. Feeling hurt because he wouldn’t let you help. Never even trying to imagine what those nights were like for him. Always going on about what a martyr you were to your imagination. Trying to make yourself out to be something special. Murph probably made a better attempt than you did, with fewer clues._

What did that evening look like on the heat-trace?

Hard to imagine. He could see their two traces heading to the point of meeting, and then a blinding light that filled the universe, with no direction, no duration.

Was that snuffed out now? So you’d see the two traces again, moving apart. His own sputtering, meandering, as if drunk or stunned. Bodie’s? He couldn’t imagine - his eternal problem where Bodie was concerned.

No, he didn’t want to believe that the blinding light had been extinguished completely, forever. It was not over. The love was not over. Not for him. Even if Bodie’s part had turned to hate or indifference, the light would still be brighter than the sun, blotting out the feeble trails of the past year. You’d only see those trails if ... the mistake had started a second trace, against a new background of darkness. Maybe this one was his alone - Bodie had his own now, which Doyle would never see.

Yes, that seemed fitting. Comforting, too, if it meant that the first trace _was_ preserved, untouched by his further mistakes of the past year.

It was not yet half-past six. He was getting ahead of himself. This time last year he hadn’t even arrived at Bodie’s block.

Well, you couldn’t expect a minute-by-minute match. This was not choreography. The important thing was to mark the day as it deserved.

He got up from the bed and wandered through to the sitting-room, still holding the jacket. The room was cooler now. A breeze stirred the curtains. There were kids playing outside, racing up and down on their bikes. It had been a long time since he’d seen or heard a skateboard. The synagogue had been torn down, and sheltered-housing built in its place. He’d taken some calls there during his last stint on the beat.

Shock. Unmistakeably. A natural reaction. An essential one, sometimes, as long as you rode it properly, kept looking for the danger signs. For Christ’s sake, he’d seen enough of it in other people, you’d have thought he’d be able to recognise it in himself. But no. Ray Doyle thinks he’s too tough to behave like any poxy civilian. Ray Doyle thinks he’s coping like a professional 100% of the time.

_Wish I could remember more of that letter. Wish I’d kept a copy. Was it really as ... smug as I think it was? “Hey, Bodie. Sorry things got nasty. But you were impossible to live with, you know. Drop me a line so I don’t have to worry any more. And then let’s not keep in touch. Oh yeah ... I love you, for what it’s worth.”_

_Don’t think I was even_ that _honest. Pratting on about the secrecy getting me down, and “the balance” - whatever I thought I meant by that. Yeah, I’d had enough of the emotional rollercoaster, but I think I used the job as an excuse, as if I was chucking us in so’s I could be a better copper. How self-righteous can you get?_

_Wonder what he thought when he picked it up off the mat? That I wanted us to try again? That I was sending the numbers of some bloody Group? Asking him to return my keys? Did he even read it all the way through?_

He went back to the bedroom. The shoe-box was on the top shelf of the wardrobe nearest the door, pushed right to the back. He could see it, but he couldn’t reach it, so he fetched one of the chairs from the dining-table, and stood on that.

The box was nearly full. A lot of letters. The last one was on top, where he’d dropped it before shutting them all away for good. It seemed surprising, now, that he hadn’t chucked them away at some point in the year, as he’d thrown away the book about Scott and Amundsen.

“I’m alright.” He mouthed the words.

_Shit._ He’d forgotten it looked ... quite like this. But then he’d tried to ignore it, hadn’t he? Dismissed it as a joke, or as a first draft of a letter Bodie hadn’t bothered to finish. Selfish, all along the line. _Anyone_ else would have seen straight away that it had been written in deep shock. Bodie in awful trouble. Not Ray Doyle, though. What would he have done if he _had_ realised? Written again, maybe - with more of the same smug nonsense. Probably refuse to see him, though insisting it was for Bodie’s own good. In other words, as little as possible - his favourite quantity where Bodie was concerned.

When had he ever got the idea he was a decent person? Was he even such a great copper? Had he been fooling himself there too?

He placed the letter very carefully on the bed, and laid the envelope next to it. _He must_ really _be alright now. I’d have heard, wouldn’t I, if he was still in trouble?_

Such a lot of letters. At least one for every week, surely. Were they all in reverse order? Or had he sorted them out the last time he’d looked through them? They weren’t all dated. Most of the letters were, but the hand-delivered notes usually started right at the top of the page with “Dear Ray”.

He kicked his shoes off and sat cross-legged on the bed, in a spreading pond of paper. The letters got sorted quickly, with just a quick glance at the date, then he tried to fit the notes into the sequence, and for that he had to read them.

Sad, so sad. This strong man wanting only to please him.

“The bloke I’m guarding was telling me there’s a Mexican restaurant opened in town. D’you fancy going on Wednesday?” Bodie had kept track of Doyle’s changing shifts as if they were his own.

“You were getting low on coffee, so I got some in. Kenyan’s OK, isn’t it? I could never even tell the difference between Nescafé and Maxwell House.” Doyle neither. He just grabbed the largest, cheapest tin in Safeways.

The past is another country. Atlantis, maybe. Lost forever. But the currents bring up fragments - waterlogged, fish-eaten scraps that had been intended to last forever.

Doyle gave up sorting, and just looked at the heap. What did the order matter, anyway?

A letter chosen at random. Opened, and resting on his crossed ankles, but the words just shapes, the meaning not reaching him.

Rounded shapes. Very neat. Ten out of ten. A gold star. Well, silver, if you were fussy about spelling.

Suddenly, the shapes themselves had a meaning.

_These pages - they’re almost all he’s written since he left school. Ran away from school. I used to think the neatness was just part of the army training, like the way he folded his underwear away in the chest-of-drawers. Made me feel a bit superior, if anything - “Hey, look how relaxed_ I _am.” Like_ I _was never taught the same way._

_I never actually saw him write, except for his signature, and his address that first day back. Bet he was very slow and careful over all of these, wanting to please, wanting to do his best for me._

_I refused to recognise what I was being offered. Everything of worth he’d salvaged from his life. And I just thought, “Scraps,” and said, “Oh, thanks,” and shoved them to the back of the wardrobe with barely a glance._

Then he started to read through them, one by one, stroking the paper with the backs of his fingers, and then folding it carefully afterwards, and putting it back in the shoe-box. Soon his knees started aching, and he uncrossed his legs, hoisted up the pillows, and lay back. A letter from Surrey, from June 1979. The first ever. _I’d just moved in here, and I wasn’t even sure if he’d ever see the place. Would he just dump me? It seemed possible, then._

“No, I agree with you about washing machines. It’d be one of my top priorities too. But Cowley has different ideas. You know blokes from his background - so used to maid service they honestly think the laundry’s done by the pixies. I’ve been lucky this time round, but some of the places ... Either nothing at all, or something you swear was originally steam-driven.”

And at the end: “I’m missing you. I’ve never known a job drag so much. I keep on thinking of you back in town, and wishing I was with you. I’ll write again. Is that OK? It’s the next best thing while I’m stuck down here, but you don’t have to read any of it.”

Doyle was crying. It had started suddenly, and now it wouldn’t stop.

_I’m missing you too, Bodie. All the time._

He carried on reading, blinking his eyes whenever the words started to blur. The liquid dripped from his chin onto his chest, or ran down his neck - either way, it soaked into his T-shirt.

A letter from Dover next. A bad time, that, although he hadn’t known how bad until later. Bodie obviously fed up, talking about Torrance’s snoring, and the fish restaurant. Murphy had been alive then, coming into the kitchen to make coffee, interrupting Bodie’s writing.

A post-card.

Another letter from Dover.

A note from ... autumn 1979, probably, starting with practical arrangements for the week to come, then turning conversational as Bodie remembered an article he’d seen in one of his Sunday newspapers, about some families in the States that were making serious preparations for nuclear war. Bodie’s mind retained the oddest things.

He fell asleep as suddenly as he’d started crying. Just ... couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer.

* * * * *

When he woke it was dark and it was raining - plump, warm summer rain. He hadn’t drawn the curtains in here, and the trails of water shone orange on the window-pane, reflecting the street-light.

For a moment, he didn’t know where he was, rising too quickly from a dream, disoriented by the cool smoothness of paper against his bare arms. His mind fumbled with memories of bedrooms, some long past, and while it did so, he was the Doyle of those times, and Bodie didn’t exist. Then he focused on the armchair by the window, and he knew the place, and the time.

He rolled onto his back and started to push himself into a sitting position, meaning to turn on the bedside light. There was a crackling sound beneath him, and his heel slipped on the duvet. He had been lying on the letters.

The main light made him wince: at the brightness, and at the mess. No sheets torn, or even badly crumpled, but ... it wasn’t right. Some fallen onto the floor. A page from the middle of a long letter - the rest of it could be anywhere. He started tidying up.

In the middle of the bed: “I’m alright.” Face-down. Dished by the unmistakeable imprint of a knee. It wouldn’t fold flat any more.

The will to straighten the mess out properly - to match page with page - vanished in a second. It would take more energy than he possessed. Back in the shoe-box any-old-how. As quickly as possible.

No one would believe this was a collection of love-letters. A rodent’s nest, maybe. The lid wouldn’t sit properly on the unruly stack. It fell off when he shoved the box back into the wardrobe, at the bottom this time, among his shoes. There seemed no point in putting it on again.

So tired. A wonder he’d woken up. Tired ... down to his bones, to his marrow. Off with the jeans. Off with the light. Slide into bed. 9.23. The gentle pattering of rain on a windless night. He slept again.

* * * * *

When he woke again it was Saturday, the first of August, and the end of his first week’s holiday. He lay and listened to footsteps on the stairs - the post being delivered. Nothing for him. There rarely was these days.

_Far_ too late for jogging. What would make him get up?

Had it been like this last year? No, he knew it hadn’t. He’d been full of the joys of ... summer, leaping out of bed to grab some hours in the sun before the late shift started. Thinking, “Be nice if Bodie was here, but what the hell.”

Shameful memories, even knowing he’d been in shock, part of his mind protecting other parts. They reduced still further his desire to meet the day - he wanted to disown that past self, not repeat his mistakes.

There was nothing in this day that deserved remembrance and silence. Nothing now in any day to come. Bodie was no longer involved. And Ray Doyle deserved nothing.

After half an hour, his bladder got him to his feet. The wardrobe doors were still open. When he came back from the bathroom he picked up the box and lid, and sat with them on the edge of the bed.

No, the lid would _not_ stay on. Maybe if he rearranged the letters, ironed the worst. But what would it be next time, when it wasn’t an anniversary of a special, terrible day? Knock a mug of coffee into the box? He felt as if he had a huge chunk of ice in the middle of his body, replacing his stomach, spine, lungs. Dread.

He couldn’t be trusted with them. They’d have to go back to the top of the wardrobe, out of danger, out of sight. Then he’d forget about them when he moved, leave them for a stranger to puzzle over (or, more likely, to chuck straight in the bin, as obvious junk). He wouldn’t mean to, but that didn’t seem to make any difference to how he behaved.

How to save them? There didn’t seem to be any answer.

Send them back to Bodie? But it would look like spite. As if he didn’t want them. Even if he tried to explain. _I mean, just look at them._ No, that was a stupid idea, more stupid even than writing that last letter.

Bury them? _Oh yeah? How much care will London’s soil take of them?_ Someone would probably dig them up, anyway.

Somewhere safe from change, from intrusion. Far from the vandal Ray Doyle. But somewhere he could protect, keep others from. The combination was impossible.

* * * * *

He was thirsty, though not hungry. A few glasses of orange juice seemed to be all he needed. He put the box carefully on the end of the bed, and went to fetch his first glass of the day.

_Burn them?_ He frowned, wondering where the idea had come from. It stayed.

_No decay. Like with a cremation. As if ..._

_Not destroyed, but preserved as they were the moment before the fire. Sent upwards towards the light. Away from humans, but still there, really. Not destroyed._

Maybe the combination wasn’t impossible. He looked down at the box, tried to imagine putting a match to it. The picture wasn’t so difficult. There were no howls of protest. The lump of ice in his guts? Not noticeable any more.

Where, though? How? Somewhere in the open, so the smoke could fly upwards. If only he had a garden. If only it was autumn, with bonfires everywhere. Waste-ground? Somewhere outside town, where the coppers or the kids wouldn’t butt in. Norfolk? That place he went to in June? He wouldn’t need long, if he speeded it up with petrol.

He got dressed quickly, then started to gather everything together. Found some matches at the back of a drawer. Cleaned out a biscuit tin to act as the hearth. Searched for a metal grille to put over the tin to stop the sheets blowing away - looked everywhere: wardrobes, tool-cupboard, bathroom. Ended up with one of the shelves from the oven. He put the box in the biscuit tin, and closed the lid firmly - a good fit - they would be safe until he found the place. Then he took everything down to his car and started to drive east.

* * * * *

The sun had gone down by the time he got home, although the sky was still light. He washed the shelf and put it back in the oven. The tin was sitting in a field, adding only fractionally to the amount of junk in it. The letters were ... somewhere else. Safe from him. Safe from anyone. They had glowed a beautiful warm light. Like love. Like looking at the angel glasses. They were where they belonged now.

He was actually hungry. The change of air, maybe. After deciding against renting a video, he settled in his armchair with a sandwich and more orange juice, and started the Wambaugh novel from the beginning. The orange juice was succeeded by coffee and scotch, and he got over half-way through the book before taking it to bed and then falling asleep in the space of a few pages.

Sunday morning started gently in his road. No church bells, milkmen, postmen, or newspaper deliveries. He woke in his own time, feeling warm and well, but not sure why. Something left over from a dream, probably.

He thought about going to the range. But he wasn’t in the mood for Tony. Or Salmon. Or whoever. No coppers. He was on holiday.

It was late - by his recent standards - but he went to the Heath for a run. Later, cooling off but still damp, he looked into the cemetery. Finally. People at work. His services were accepted, and he spent the rest of the afternoon weeding. The man on his right - a taller version of Dave the barman - was working hard on the eye-contact, but Doyle hadn’t the energy. Maybe some other time.

On Monday morning he woke with the same feeling of contentment. It _was_ left by a dream. This time he could remember some of it, though not much. Bodie had been nearby, sleepy, waiting for him.

A sweet feeling, that closeness, and no sadness now that he was awake. He dreamt of Bodie so rarely. Maybe there would be more now. It must be a sign. A reward.

It was a dull day, that threatened rain from the start. He ran in it, but not for long, and it was good to come back to a warm bath, and then to finish his book while the storm continued outside.

The worst of his depression was over - he could cope with other people: in stories, in person. MacKenzie would be relieved. It would happen every year - this mourning. But maybe the next would be easier. He wouldn’t make so many mistakes. He knew what was right now.

When the book was over, he thought about getting some videos, but the TV was good for a change, and he skipped around the channels quite happily for the rest of the evening.

* * * * *

He woke up with a start. Some noise had disturbed him. But it was quiet now, barely light outside. His heart was racing though, and his breath tense and gasping. Gradually, things slowed down. Must have been some shock, whatever it was.

There was something he had to do today. Something he had to buy. A shop off the high street, the other side from the station. He’d never been in it, but he was sure that was where he had to go. Now, if he could just visualise the place ...

The hardware shop. With the orange sign, and always a lot of stuff outside - step-ladders, buckets, paint. He had to buy a shovel. That was it.

And then he remembered the dream that he’d escaped from, and he moaned, as he’d been moaning when he woke himself up.

It was night, with a huge, pure-white moon near the horizon. At first the moon had been off to his right. He was walking towards a smaller light, an orange light, with a large mug in his hands. Walking carefully, so as not to spill the water.

He was in the desert. The oasis was behind him, and Bodie ahead, lying by their fire. He was happy: Bodie was waiting; he’d be with him soon.

Bodie was lying on his left side, facing the moon, the light on his face silvery and cold, the warmer light of the fire at his back. He was still. Doyle smiled, relieved to see him sleeping so quietly. The worst was over. They’d be going home soon.

He turned away and saw to the fire. The mug turned into a metal cup, badly scratched and dented - Bodie must have dragged it round half the world. The water boiled slowly. He got the tea and aspirins ready, and waited, not turning round, content just to have Bodie so close.

Finally the water was hot enough, though not too hot. He stirred until he thought the aspirins had dissolved, though he couldn’t be sure. The moon and the fire cast light on the edges of things, but left the rest dark. The desert around was all blackness.

“OK, Bodie. Ready for your tea? Just like hospital, isn’t it? Getting woken up to take your sleeping pills.” He knelt near the sleeping head, the moon to his left now, and the cup by his right hand.

“Let’s get you sitting up. Feel free to help. You know the system as well as I do.” Over the days of the fever, he’d perfected his technique for hauling Bodie upright, ingenuity spurred on by several choking fits on the first day. It was all done by rolling him from one position to another - no lifting - his own body weight did all the work.

When it was over, Doyle was kneeling behind Bodie, supporting the heavy torso with his own. His left arm circled Bodie’s waist, his right hand steadied the head against his neck, getting him comfortable so he could drink safely.

He felt around to the right for the cup, unable to turn to look, and located it without knocking it over (another improvement in technique).

“Now, I know it’s not the Ritz ... We’re fresh out of cucumber sandwiches.” The warm metal parted Bodie’s lips. When the tea trickled into his mouth, he’d start to swallow, even if he never came fully awake. How much of any of this would he remember when it was all over?

Liquid flowed along the line of the lips, escaped at the corners of the mouth, ran down Bodie’s chin. The trails were silver in the moonlight. Doyle took the cup away, put it down on the sand.

“Bodie?” He shook him slightly. “Bodie?”

There was no pulse. He knew exactly where to find it, and there was nothing.

His right hand cradled Bodie’s head again, and he bowed his head to his chest, so that their cheeks touched. He could feel the coolness in the skin now.

_When did it happen?_

For a long time he knelt, just holding him, eyes closed.

_He shouldn’t have been alone._

There was a line of liquid still clinging to the join of Bodie’s lips, tracing their shape with a curve. Suddenly Doyle had a cloth in his hand. He wiped the line away, dried the chin, too, creating small areas of clean skin under the stubble.

Bodie was filthy. He stank. Doyle raised his head and looked down at the length of the body in front of him. Filthy. Long legs sprawled in green khaki darkened and stiff with sweat. Face streaked with dirt. Hair matted with grease and sand.

Doyle himself was in jeans and T-shirt, fresh as if he’d just come out of the shower.

_He looks like something thrown away. Worthless. Something that’s never been loved._

But that wasn’t true.

No one would guess it though, seeing him like this. Doyle wanted to wash him, shave him, dress him in the black and white that suited him so well. But they were in the middle of the desert, with no clean clothes. The cloth had disappeared, the cup too. There was nothing he could do.

Except bury him.

With what? He’d looked through the saddle-bags - no shovel - nothing except ammunition and food. He could use his hands, but he wouldn’t be able to make the grave deep enough. The wind or ... something else would uncover the body in no time. He’d look ... like an animal that had fallen in its tracks, left where it lay, unnoticed or unimportant.

* * * * *

He’d woken himself up then, crying out in protest.

This was worse than anything that had gone before.

What could he do but accept it? The truth about Bodie’s life - which Ray Doyle could not alter by even a word.

_I couldn’t even be there when he died. I couldn’t even do that for him._

Was Bodie dead? Was the dream a message? It had seemed so real, so detailed. It must mean _something_.

_No. Surely not. I’d have heard, wouldn’t I?_

_But how? Who would tell me? Cowley? Did he even know we were friends?_

He’d been so sure, just days before, that he’d hear if Bodie was in trouble. But he hadn’t thought it through. Just trying to hide again.

It was still early - not yet six o’clock - but he got up, washed, and dressed. The tumbler of orange juice had become a habit.

He parked down the street from Bodie’s block, not too obvious, but with a view of the entrance. Bodie usually parked around the corner, closer to the building, though the car wasn’t there. Maybe he had another car now. Maybe he was on nights. Maybe he parked somewhere else these days. Maybe he’d moved.

_Don’t. Don’t think like that. You’ll see him. He’ll come out of that door, brisk as ever. Then he’ll drive away without seeing you. It was just a dream._

The block started to wake up. He watched curtains being drawn, windows opened. Bodie’s flat was too high up, too far away, and the bedroom window was hidden by the balcony.

The entrance door opened. His head snapped up, but it was a woman in a flower-print dress, carrying a macintosh and briefcase. The day had dawned without a cloud in the sky.

By half past nine, the workers had all left. The spaces left by their cars were filled by others. The door still opened from time to time, to let out women without briefcases, who headed towards Oxford Street, and came back an hour later with bags from Selfridges or Marks and Spencers.

No Bodie.

At lunchtime he had to leave the car. He was _sure_ he’d seen some public loos in the tunnels under Marble Arch. On the way back he stopped in Marks’ for more orange juice (and a sandwich). A mild panic speeded his steps - what if he’d missed him while he was away?

Past midnight he started nodding off. He tried to keep himself awake, and then gave up - it would be OK as long as he woke up when the car arrived.

He dreamed about the desert again, short dreams about holding him, feeling the heat draining away. It was starting to feel like a real memory now, part of his life.

Cars drove past. Some woke him. He knew where he was, instantly, alert and wide-eyed, willing Bodie to walk round the corner. It was dark in the street, but he’d know him, just from the way he walked.

* * * * *

It was breakfast-time on Wednesday morning. The network of streets was full of sunlight, sharp shadows, and traffic. The entrance doors opened: she was wearing a black suit today.

Doyle’s brain felt as if it had turned to suet during the night. His eyes kept closing. But he didn’t want to go home. He’d stay here until he saw him.

No one bothered him all day - no traffic warden, or policeman, or suspicious local. He watched, and slept, and dreamed. He visited the tunnels in the morning and afternoon.

_Must remember the times I go. Not fall into a pattern. Or I might miss him every day._ He kept notes of the times, not trusting himself to remember, and dreamt that the times themselves were a message that he was just on the brink of understanding.

* * * * *

By Friday he was looking wild. It was hot in the car, even with the windows open, and he hadn’t washed or slept properly in three days. He wouldn’t have thought about this for a second, but he’d seen the woman on the check-out swallow, and then control her expression, and she could only have been looking at one person.

His reflection wasn’t a surprise. That bathroom in Brixton. And he’d thought then, “I must have looked like this when Bodie first saw me.” Maybe this was his true face.

But she might call the store-detectives next time. Have to go home for a wash and change. But that would take an hour, maybe two. He couldn’t afford it. Not on a Friday. Bodie’d usually come home on Friday, hadn’t he? When he’d been away. Or Saturday. He’d wait till Sunday. Go to another store where they weren’t so fussy.

* * * * *

By Sunday morning his scalp was itching constantly; his eyes were red and watering. He drove home. His holiday was over, he was now on four-day weekly leave between nights and earlies, and that was nearly half-gone.

The shower got rid of the dirt, but couldn’t touch the exhaustion. Sleep, before he went back? _Which would be worse, missing him because you’re asleep here, or because you fall asleep in the car?_

_Oh, face it. You won’t see him if you sit outside for a month. He’s not ... there any more. Go back if you like, but there’s no point._

_I want to be_ sure.

_You can’t prove anything like this. Go and ask at CI5. Or go to West Norwood._

Silence. His brain pulsed, absorbed with its own problems. He went through to the bedroom, and dressed in his second-best jeans and a sweatshirt (it was no longer T-shirt weather). His stock of clean clothes was running low - he set a load of laundry going.

_Could go to CI5. If it’s still Tony on the desk he’d recognise me, tell me straight away. If it isn’t ... Explanations, Cowley brought in, Bodie himself if ... he’s only moved flats. When he walked into the room and saw me, I think ... I think I’d go mad. Even if Tony_ is _there he might get suspicious, call Cowley. It’s not safe._

He drove south, across Waterloo Bridge. Maybe it wasn’t the quickest route to West Norwood, but at least he knew it. Railton Road certainly looked different on a Sunday afternoon. He only recognised Effra Parade from the burnt-out buildings around it. Did the black with the orange shirt actually _live_ along here?

The cemetery was huge, built on a hill, like Highgate West, and with a high stone wall and enormous cast-iron gates. Impressive in its way, but too open and well-kept to attract the film-makers. There were other visitors, though not many.

Where would he be? Could be anywhere, any fresh grave. Though who said it had to be fresh? Up to a year old, maybe. Just work through methodically.

He started at the top of the hill, far from the gates. The paths were regular, not like Highgate, and it was easy to set up a pattern. He’d check each grave in one section, and then move onto the next.

After an hour, he had covered maybe a tenth of the area. There had been three light showers, lasting a few minutes each - he barely noticed them.

_What will I do when I find him?_ He could see the grave-stone in his mind’s eye - plain, with a curve at the top:

WILLIAM ANDREW PHILIP BODIE

1952 - 1981

Though it might not be ‘52. He’d never known Bodie’s birthday, could only go on the jokes from the early days about “older men”.

_What will I do?_

Another shower. A gap appeared in the clouds, and then closed up again.

_I’ll kill myself._

The first time he’d ever thought about it.

_Knowing that he’s dead. That he’s here. That ... this is all he had. I won’t be able to bear it._

The gun was back at the flat. There was ammunition in the case. He need never go back to work, never worry about making another mistake.

_After I find him I can just go back. There’s nothing I need to sort out. I can finish it all today. I don’t owe life ... anything, if it can do this to Bodie._

It was a good feeling, bubbling and exciting in his stomach, like Christmas Eve when he was very young.

He carried on searching. Another hour. Two. The place would be closing soon. He could come back tomorrow.

So sure of what he was looking for, he almost missed the rows of identical graves under the east wall. Plainer even than he’d imagined, a flat top, not a curve.

“IAN MURPHY 1953-1980”

“TERENCE MIDDLETON 1949-1980”

“KENNETH PETRIE 1952-1980”

Petrie. He’d been trying to remember the name. Found in the river. In July. There were flowers on Murphy’s grave - a week old, maybe.

The row continued:

“SALLY BAKER 1952-1980”

“ANDREW DAVID TAYLOR 1951-1981”

“ANTHONY MILLER 1955-1981”

So Taylor was dead. He couldn’t be sorry, still blamed him for all the women Bodie had slept with. The other names he didn’t recognise, but they were all so young. They _had_ to be CI5.

That was all. No Bodie. He checked the whole area, but it was all in order, the progression of years never broken.

He sank to his knees on the damp grass, suddenly exhausted, no bubbling in his stomach. It was like after Brixton, when he’d lain in the bath, wanting never to move again. His eyes leaked sparse tears - he just hadn’t the energy to keep them in, but he wasn’t really sure what they were for.

It rained again, more heavily this time, and with no sun-light afterwards. Doyle didn’t notice, didn’t turn round. He wasn’t aware of anything, not cold or the wet or the cemetery emptying behind him.

A hand settled gently on his shoulder. He didn’t start, had almost been expecting this.

“Bodie?” He looked up.

“I’m sorry, sir. We’re closing. You’ll have to go.”

A shaky release of breath. He wiped a wet hand over a wetter face, and then struggled to his feet. His right leg had gone to sleep. The attendant walked him to the gates in silence, and then locked them behind him.

* * * * *

It made no difference to the dream or to the feeling of desolation that went with it.

_He’s alive._ A plea. _Don’t. He’s alive._

_It’s my sub-conscious being a bit slow. It’s done it before. Give it a few days, and it’ll catch up. He’ll swallow when he should. He’ll get better. Because he_ did _get better, after all. That’s what_ really _happened._

But he never swallowed.


	21. Heat-Trace - Chapter 19

## Chapter 19

”Hoo. Thought I told you to take it easy, Ray.”

A shrug.

“Good holiday, was it? See the exotic sights of Kentish Town? Look as if you’d been sampling the night-life, at any rate.”

“Mmm.”

“So what’d you do?”

“Oh. Just bummed around. You know. I miss anything?”

“Great chase last Friday. Just at the start of the shift. I grabbed it soon as it came over. Ended up nearly in Stoke Newington. Cars came in from all the districts. Brilliant stuff.”

“What had they done?”

“Who?”

“The ones you were chasing.”

“Oh. Theft, I think. Wasn’t our collar. We just came back here. Quiet night apart from that.”

No one else asked about his holiday, which was largely a relief. In the canteen MacKenzie was still finding people who hadn’t heard the full story of Friday’s excitement. Doyle had soup and a roll, which was more than he wanted: the sight of the piled plates of pie, beans and chips made his guts shift most unpleasantly.

It _was_ good to be back at work. The problems came from outside, and sometimes they could be solved, even in the same day; if not, you could sit and nod sympathetically, and by the end of it the civilians seemed to realise how trivial their worries were. It was like a holiday, really.

Going home afterwards was difficult. That was the problem with being in the car - you ended the shift on your own, when everyone else had already gone down the pub, or was off playing football or something. He almost wished he was still in the section house, where he’d always find something going on that he could watch.

What about the range? Better than the pub, even. Total concentration. Be good to see Tony, actually. And Salmon could be ignored. He _wouldn’t_ re-join the team. Couldn’t see the fun of it anymore. Getting old, probably.

It wasn’t until the ear-defenders were hanging around his neck, and the cold weight of the gun was warming in his hand that he _really_ remembered what he’d promised himself on Sunday at West Norwood. He stood frowning, staring at the ground, for half a minute, then shook his head sharply and lifted the ear-defenders into place.

He didn’t think about it again until he was driving home, the gun-case on the passenger seat beside him. The thought didn’t horrify him. He wouldn’t do it - not now - but if he _did_ find out some day that ... that Bodie had died ...

A warmth in his stomach again at the knowledge that he would _not_ be totally powerless if that happened.

_I should go back to the cemetery sometimes. To check. The first Sunday of every month. So I don’t forget._

_* * * * *_

The rest of the week was the same as that Wednesday. Work. Shooting. Sleep. He always woke feeling as if he’d had the dream. Maybe sometimes he didn’t.

Tony was at the range on Sunday afternoon - the only one from the team. He waved at Doyle as soon as he saw him, and then wandered over a few minutes later. The team wasn’t mentioned.

“Haven’t seen you in, what ...?”

“Months.”

“Yeah. Before the riots even, I guess.”

Doyle grunted and nodded. “You see any action?”

“No, thank God. I slept through most of it.”

Refreshing. He smiled. “Lucky.”

“Yeah. You?”

“I was there for the Saturday.”

“Bad?”

“I wouldn’t want to do it again. Ever.” He had never admitted that before; it would have been all round the canteen as soon as Woods got hold of it.

Tony just nodded. “You doing anything after you finish here?”

A shrug and a shake of the head.

“How about coming back to my place for a drink? Catch up?”

Doyle hid his surprise. He hadn’t thought of Tony as a friend - barely even as an acquaintance. “Thanks. What time are you leaving?”

“Six?”

“OK.”

A few times when he turned round, he found Tony watching him. That was alright - his performance was nothing to be ashamed of.

Tony lived out to the east. Not exactly on Doyle’s way home, but the drive home would still be easy enough. He had the ground floor in a Victorian terrace, which he was obviously pleased with, though to Doyle it seemed dark and cramped. Maybe the feeling of claustrophobia came more from the inescapable images of guns, which covered almost every surface. Guns, and thirty or so little cacti lined up on the windowsill and on the mantlepiece.

Doyle settled on the sagging brown sofa and accepted a beer. Later he moved on to orange juice.

“There’s always a place for you on the team, you know.”

“Mmm. Thanks. But I’ve had enough of competitions. I’ve got my trophies. Let someone else collect them.”

“Is that final?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I won’t mention it again. But the place _is_ still there.” And that was the last time they ever discussed the team.

What Tony _really_ wanted to talk about were the riots. He’d watched every scrap of news, was following the Scarman Enquiry daily. Doyle couldn’t work out exactly what was behind the interest. Maybe he was just trying to get at the truth?

Doyle wasn’t in the mood for theorising. He told his view of Saturday night as honestly as he could, and left it at that. He _didn’t_ lie - he just didn’t have the words to describe everything he’d felt in those hours and afterwards.

“One of the worst things ... was not knowing what was going on. Not just ...” He waved a hand. “... in Brixton, but everywhere in the city. For all I knew, it could have spread -“ A snap of the fingers. “- just like that. My flat could have been burning to the ground while I was miles away trying to save a street that should have been knocked down years ago. Most of the time I was too busy to worry about it, but ... sometimes ... At least, watching it on the news ... you knew it was just Brixton.”

“Yeah, well, they tried hard enough to scare us. If I’d had a quid for every time some prat said ‘tinderbox’ ... I’d be retired now.”

* * * * *

It was dusk by the time he got home, the flat stuffy and grey. He didn’t feel like reading, watching or listening to anything, but he didn’t want to go to bed either. Had Bodie felt like this last July, knowing a nightmare was waiting for him every night?

 _Must have been worse, having me there all the time, doing my long-suffering act, getting impatient. How would_ I _feel if ... if I was still with Pete, going through all this, not able to tell him? Would he guess? Do I ... say anything?_

Prowling the living room, he caught sight of the book Pete had given him for his birthday. Only two months ago. It felt like another century. Strange. He hadn’t even thought about sex in that time. Not at all. Not like after Bodie. At the moment ... he didn’t care if it ended up as six months. Or a year. Or never. He certainly wasn’t going to be joining any more bloody evening classes.

He took the book down, and sat with it in the armchair, with the table-light on, and the curtains drawn. The pictures brought envy, and lust. Were there really people that happy, or that confident? Who could look straight into the camera, unafraid of what it might see? If Bodie had been like that, could take his place in this book ...

_There was a look he had sometimes, when he didn’t know I was watching. Staring out of the window at nothing, serious and sad._

_I haven’t a single photograph of him. Not one from all that time. But I begged one off Ann in the first few days._

And he’d thrown it away with her letters.

“Oh, Christ!” He was on his feet, the book sliding to the floor with a thud. His head buzzed as blood dove towards his heart.

 _I burnt the letters. I threw them away. Oh, God._ He was panting for breath. _I must have been mad._

And he’d only realised now, nearly two weeks later. You couldn’t blame that on shock. That was ... that was ...

 _... evil. There’s something really wrong with me. I just can’t ..._ think. _Can’t even feel properly._

_Just because I was feeling low that morning. Didn’t want them around making me feel worse._

_They were the only thing I had that was irreplaceable. The only thing I wanted to_ save _from the riots. What’s wrong with me that I managed to forget so easily?_

_Oh, God._

He staggered to the bathroom and collapsed over the bowl just in time, though he had nothing much to lose except beer and orange juice. Afterwards he leant against the white-tiled wall, body chilled with sweat, eyes closed.

 _The dreams. They_ were _a message. Not fair, though, to take it out on Bodie. Should have been me. Not fair._

_* * * * *_

After that the dreams became much less frequent, and most nights he slept straight through. But he would have welcomed them now, as punishment. He thought about punishment a lot, about being beaten about the arms and shoulders, about bruises. Were there places where they’d do that for you? Without sex. Without the leather and stilettos. Probably. But he couldn’t face the search.

* * * * *

Work still gave him an escape from himself. It was as if the street was a stage, and he slipped into his part as soon as he was out of the front door. Maybe he was even doing better than before, monitoring and correcting his own performance, saying the right things, _never_ letting himself get angry. After all, these people had nothing to do with him. He didn’t much care what happened to them once they were out of his sight. He just wanted to be allowed to watch while things were interesting.

He laughed a lot with MacKenzie while they were on duty, competing with him for the grimmest jokes. They went for every call they could take, MacKenzie’s radio reflexes getting sharper by the day.

“Kentish Town should be in the holiday brochures,” he said towards the end of August. “It’s done you a power of good.”

Doyle just laughed.

* * * * *

Away from the car and the station and the pub, he did very little. He ran. He ate. He slept. He hadn’t watched a video in over a month, had barely turned the TV on. Mostly he sat in the armchair in the living room and looked out of the picture-window at the sky and at the tree that grew just inside the fence. Sometimes there were small clouds, and sometimes there were large clouds, and the leaves fluttered and twisted in the wind.

On the first Sunday in September he was on earlies, and he drove south as soon as he’d finished his shift. Nothing had changed, except the flowers on Murphy’s grave.

* * * * *

“C” Relief was up to strength again, and the canteen was full of talk of shield training and water cannon and how much easier things were on the continent where they had the proper equipment, and the various groups of people they’d _like_ to sort out. Doyle joined in the technical discussions, describing his own experience with the shields without once mentioning bacon.

There was also much speculation about who would be sent to the IRUs next. It didn’t frighten Doyle any more. After all, what could they do to him? But he’d rather stay on the streets.

As it turned out, their speculations were largely incorrect. Only four members were taken from the relief, and Woods was not one of them. Doyle would have smirked harder at his protests if MacKenzie hadn’t been one of the four. He had exactly a week to get used to the idea, and then it was a Sunday night-shift, and Woods was in the area car with him.

He hadn’t seen much of Woods since he switched to the car, hadn’t played squash with him since the beginning of July. The man hadn’t improved in that time.

The operator deferred to the driver. That was the rule. Watched the driver’s face as each call came through for the nod or the frown that would decide whether or not they would take it. Doyle considered himself to be easy-going - he’d never _really_ shouted at an operator for being slow off the mark, or for taking too many weary calls.

They argued, and the first night was only the start. It spoilt Doyle’s enjoyment of the calls themselves. He wasn’t in control in the same way, and Woods kept on trying to take over that work too. So far they hadn’t argued in front of a civilian, but it was bound to happen.

Doyle wondered vaguely if Woods was always this bad. Surely he couldn’t be, or everyone else would have complained about him. Maybe everyone else just let him get on with it, thought it was good coppering. _Or maybe he’s really pissed off about not getting into the IRU. Taking it out on me._ But he didn’t really care about what was going on inside Woods’ head. He just wanted rid of him.

Weekly leave came round eventually. The tree was heading into autumn. He watched it starting to close down, give up what it didn’t need.

* * * * *

Woods had not mellowed over their four days apart. There was nothing you could do about it, short of snatching the handset from him. Or complaining. But Doyle didn’t know which way the station would go - Woods was a rising star, wasn’t he? There was only another few weeks anyway, then he’d be back on the beat, with a fresh-faced youngster hanging on his every word for six weeks. Let Stone do the complaining.

The last day of that week of earlies was the first Sunday in October. New flowers for Murphy again. Doyle was starting to resent him for having someone who did that for him, who remembered him.

* * * * *

Doyle had stopped arguing, stopped looking at Woods when the calls came through. He just drove, his senses narrowing down to the feel of the car under his hands. The machine. That was enough for now.

At the beginning of their shift on Saturday afternoon, Sergeant Banks stopped them in the corridor. “Oh. You know MacKenzie will be back for next weekend.”

Well, they did now.

“Thought he wasn’t due back till Christmas, or something.” Woods was not pleased.

“Two to four week secondments. That’s what they’re working to these days.”

“Who’s going next?”

A shrug. “May change soon, anyway. When Scarman’s report comes out. Dunno what he’s going to recommend, do we?”

“He may even mention you by name. Have your career set out for the next ten years.” Doyle was looking towards Woods, at a point to the left of his chin. Woods chose to see it as a straightforward joke.

“Miss the car, will you?”

“Yeah, well, it’s better than plodding around. Pick of the Yard _and_ comms. Don’t have to take either if you don’t feel like it. Play them off against each other. Your own boss.”

“If you don’t try it on too often. They catch on eventually, you know. And it’s not a job for life.”

“Hah. You’re the one to talk. You’ve been here since anyone can remember.”

Was that _meant_ to be as offensive as it sounded? Knowing Woods, yes. He just shrugged, and listened to the car instead.

Woods was sulking, the king rat about to be deposed. He seemed to be choosing calls mostly out of spite, going for domestics and anything else that sounded petty, and leaving Doyle to do all the work. This suited Doyle perfectly. He even started laughing again, and when they had passengers, he played tour-guide and host, while Woods was silent, concentrating on the radio for the worst calls.

Doyle found he could bear to look at Woods again. In fact, he studied him a lot, not caring if the other man was aware of the scrutiny. All of the rat-like features delighted him, gave him a sense of power. _You don’t know what I’m thinking about you. You don’t know that I’m not taken in at all._ By Tuesday night he was even up to suggesting a game of squash. Woods accepted grimly, obviously unable to turn down any challenge, and that delighted Doyle even more. They played on Thursday afternoon, and Woods won, and Doyle didn’t care.

* * * * *

Thursday night was very quiet, cold and wet. After Scotland Yard had merged its four channels into two for the night, Doyle took them to a side-street, and parked. He watched the drops of water on the windscreen, his mind empty.

“Cross the o-cean. In a sil-ver plane. Daa da daaa da.”

Doyle looked round slowly. Woods’ eyes were closed, his face turned slightly away. His lips were still moving, but if they were producing any sound, it was not audible over the rain and the crackling of the radio.

“You be-long. To me.”

For once, it didn’t seem to be a display. He might have been alone in the car. Doyle didn’t know the song, and Woods wasn’t really singing, but even in a patchy whisper, it spoke of soaring flight, and homecoming.

“See the de-sert. Wet with mor-ning rain.”

Whatever it was, it was stuck in Woods’ head.

“You be-long. To me.”

If it had been Garrett, Doyle would have nudged her and told her to shut up. He seemed to have been plagued with partners who lapsed into tuneless whistling or tongue-clicking.

Breathing was suddenly a conscious task. Slow and deep through open mouth, careful not to make a sound. Like sitting in the park with a squirrel inches away. Trying to convince it that you’re a tree.

“You be-long. To me.”

The end of the verse. Woods breathed in deeply, then sighed, turning his head further away. His eyes opened, and then he was still.

Doyle recognised the angle of the head, the curve of the mouth immediately. _Oh, no. Please. Not him._ He wanted to lean over, coax the head round with a gentle hand, and then kiss him. His body wanted it. His heart wanted it.

He let out a long, shuddering breath, then bent forward to turn the key in the ignition.

* * * * *

Friday was busier, as you’d expect, and even when it was quiet, Doyle didn’t let them stay still for long. He talked to Woods. Properly. Asking about his family, his favourite parts of London, holidays. Things that should show the man at his best, his least arrogant. He was trying to like him, at least a bit, trying to break this habit of hostility.

Woods just accepted the attention as his due, and didn’t reciprocate. But they started talking about their calls, at least. Started working almost like a team.

* * * * *

MacKenzie had decided what he wanted to do for the rest of his life.

“But wasn’t it boring? I mean, what did you actually _do_?”

“Oh, no, it’s great. There’s training, see. And testing out all this gear. And the lads. Come from all over. Great bunch, they were. We reckon Scarman’s gotta set ‘em up all over the country. Only way, y’see? Anyway, I’m putting my name down, first thing.”

Doyle nodded. He didn’t volunteer his experience of being on standby with the Firearms Squad, since MacKenzie obviously didn’t think there might be any similarity. The man would find out. Anyway - boredom to the boring.

* * * * *

The tree was nearly bare now. He’d watched many of the leaves glide to the ground. Strange how black clouds could look. It was only water, wasn’t it? Like steam. When did you ever see black steam? They looked so angry, so heavy, staying in the sky through force of will.

It rained on Tuesday, and on Wednesday. He sat in the dark, warm room, watching the tree endure, then watching the raindrops backlit by the streetlight.

“You be-long. To me.”

He shut his eyes, and imagined a dark head bending towards his own, a hot tongue parting his lips, oh, so gently. Short hair slipping cool through his fingers, with the warmth of the scalp underneath.

Why was he torturing himself like this? Because he deserved it?

But he kept his eyes closed.

It wasn’t the first time he’d thought of Woods like this. Not at all. But his other fleeting fantasies had had some foundation in the reality of Woods’ character. He’d never imposed this almost melancholy gentleness on the man.

Fingers on his flies. A whisper in his ear. _Cross the o-cean._ Gel - cool, and sweet as a kiss. Then he was being stretched and filled. Not a big cock, but big enough, and wanting nothing but his pleasure.

He was curled up in the armchair, half on his left side, hands stroking and kneading, taking it slowly at first.

It was only when he was slumped across the arm, regaining his breath, that he realised that he was crying.

On Thursday morning he made no particular effort to get to the station early in order to meet the new probationer. What was the point?

Another short one. Must have been standing on a bump to make five eight. Damned near skinny, too. Probably compensating for it in some appalling way.

Well, he had a pleasant face, at least. Evenly tanned skin with a healthy pink showing through. Light brown hair with a slight wave in it - probably not normally that fluffy. And light brown, friendly eyes - alert, but not nervous. The type who’s always known how to talk to girls.

Doyle changed slowly, looking round surreptitiously for Woods so as to avoid him.

“Oh, Ray.” It was Sergeant Banks. “You haven’t met Chris Wharton yet, have you?”

“No. Hi, Chris.”

The usual introductions were made.

“You’re a Londoner then, to listen to you.”

“Yeah. Born in the sound of Bow Bells and all that. But I’ve lived in Southend since I was six. Good to be back, though.”

He really seemed a nice lad. Bright but not cocky. Even Garrett might have approved. _Was I like that at eighteen? If he’s got a level head, he might have the makings of a really good copper._

_* * * * *_

The first week went very quickly. Wharton was full of questions, and he listened, too. He was interested in the whole training process, asking about what changes Doyle had seen in his time, and speculating about what Scarman was going to recommend.

“He was at Hendon the other week, you know. Sat in on a class on public order stuff. Spent most of the morning with the DAC and the staff.”

Doyle hadn’t heard about this. You could get isolated in the car, especially if you weren’t talking to your operator.

“What d’you think they said?”

“Well, I dunno about _him_ , but I know they want the course to be longer. Twenty weeks, some are talking about.” Doyle whistled. “Yeah, I know. Course some of that’ll be riot training. But the big thing is, uh, ‘human awareness’.”

“What’s that when it’s at home?”

A shrug. “About not shaking down a taxi driver in the worst street in Brixton when all his mates are watching from the take-away next door. That sort of awareness, I think.”

They both laughed.

* * * * *

Doyle showed Wharton around the pubs after the end of their shifts, and even joined him and the section-house-crowd one evening. He’d lost that feeling that he was acting a part - he was just Ray Doyle earning a living. And Woods was just Woods. It was several days before he noticed that the tree had lost all its leaves.

* * * * *

Lord Scarman submitted his report to the Home Secretary on Friday the 30th of September, but it wasn’t due to be published until November. Doyle hadn’t decided whether he was going to read it. Probably have to, to set an example for Wharton. The canteen would doubtless rely on “The Sun” to decide which were the most important sections.

He wasn’t expecting to read anything good about himself, anyway. _And most shameful of all, the cowardice of the serials in Effra Parade. It is hard to believe now that it took seventy five grown men over an hour to walk down a short residential street._ At the time he’d thought they were doing well just to stand still, but maybe that evening had looked quite different from the outside. Certainly he’d seen no sign since that anyone in public life understood what it had been like.

“Did you apply for the job before or after the riots?” Doyle asked Wharton on Saturday evening.

“Oh, before. Months before.”

“You think of changing your mind?”

“Nah. I mean, no one was actually killed, were they?”

Doyle hadn’t thought of it like that. He felt a brief nostalgia for the days when he too thought he was immortal.

“You ever work in the East End?” Wharton had a way of changing the subject without warning.

“No. Not really.”

“Ah. Well, brother of a friend of mine’s down there, and last time I saw him - back home, this is - he was telling us about the time he was taking a call in this tower block. Eleventh floor it was. Anyway, he knocks on the door, and this guy opens it, and guess what’s standing behind him in the sitting room?”

Doyle shrugged.

“A horse.”

“A horse? On the eleventh floor?”

“On the eleventh floor.”

Doyle started nodding slowly. “He was a gypsy, wasn’t he?”

“Ah, you’ve heard this one before.”

“Sort of. A while ago. They use them as currency, don’t they?”

“That’s what Barry said. I just keep on imagining him getting the thing in the lift.”

“If it was working.”

* * * * *

It never occurred to Doyle to invite Wharton to the flat for a meal or a drink. The boy was fitting in perfectly well. In fact, he seemed able to get on with anyone, regardless of rank or age or background. Doyle wondered if he’d been fostered. He mentioned his mother and father (mostly his mother), but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. And there was that move to Southend ... He had to have picked up his diplomatic skill _somewhere_.

Doyle didn’t ask.

* * * * *

They were on lates on Sunday the 1st of November. Doyle drove south in the morning, thinking about what he’d do if Bodie _was_ there, or rather, about _when_ he’d do it. As soon as he got home? Or after the shift? Or after he’d finished with Wharton? That would be on the 5th of December. Not long to wait. Bodie would understand.

This time Murphy had no flowers. Doyle didn’t gloat as he’d thought he would.

The paths were slippery with wet, rotting leaves. The other visitors seemed to be dressed in their Sunday best, on their way from church probably. The place was too large, too bare, too regimented. Pitiless. A place for forgetting the dead, not for remembering them. He couldn’t imagine Bodie here, not as clearly as he had before.

* * * * *

On Monday, at about seven in the evening, Doyle was offered a call to a reported break-in. As a Tutor, he could pick and choose his calls (within limits), in order to give his pupils a broad training, and to keep them out of trouble before they were ready for it. He decided to take this one, and they set off for Scutari Terrace immediately.

Number 23 was a three storey house divided into two flats, and the call had come from Flat B. The front door was intact. Doyle pressed the buzzer, and there was a long pause, the sound of slow footsteps, and then a pink shape approaching the frosted glass.

“Did you call the police, ma’am?”

“It’s the mattress. It’s what they done to the mattress.” Was she drunk? He couldn’t smell anything, but her speech was slurred, and unnaturally loud.

“And what _has_ been done to the mattress. Could you show us?”

She turned and led the way up the stairs to the open door at the top, and then up the second flight of stairs inside the flat. As they proceeded, they gathered children in their wake. Once on the landing, Doyle looked down and counted five, with an age-range (in his estimate) from three to eleven. They stared at him, silent, dressed even more shabbily than their mother, who had introduced herself on the way up as Petra Davison.

There were three doors at the top of the stairs, and she led them through the middle one into a small bedroom that was even more depressing than Pete’s - damp, as well as cold. There was a double bed near the window, with the covers stripped right back. Otherwise it looked normal.

“What’s the problem?”

“Well, it’s acid, isn’t it?” She pointed at the middle of the bed.

He looked closer. The sheets were yellow with age. Maybe they _did_ look wet there. Closer still, and then he was backing away, coughing sharply.

“See? I come in, and I was making the bed, and-“ She showed him the back of her hand, where there was an angry red mark, like a mild burn.

“When you called the station, you said there had been a break-in. Are you saying that someone broke in and did this?”

“Well, of course.”

“And nothing else? Nothing was taken?”

A harsh laugh. She gestured round. “What would _you_ take?”

“Do you know who might have done it?”

“No.”

“Have you ... any enemies that you know of?”

“No. Stop that, Elvis!”

Doyle started and looked round, to see a boy of about five dashing out of the room. He turned back to the woman. “How do you think they got in?”

“Through the back, of course. Look.” She pointed out of the window.

He edged around the side of the bed and looked out. There was a small, well-kept garden, reduced in size by the flat-roofed extension built onto the ground floor. The first floor had also been extended, so there was another flat roof just below the window, and to the right. Doyle wondered idly whether the extensions had been built before or after the house had been converted into flats, and if after, what the arguments had been like.

It _might_ be possible to get in. If you had a ladder.

“Were any of the windows open when you got in?”

“No.”

“And this is the only bed that’s been touched?”

“Yes.”

He finished by asking when the flat had been empty, and then told her they’d ask if the neighbours had seen anything.

“And call me if you find anything else.”

“What about the mattress?”

“Well, why don’t you turn it over just in the meantime? Then you should get a new one.”

“I can’t afford it, can I?”

“Do you know where the local DHSS office is?”

“Course I do.”

“Then ask them about an Emergency Payment.”

This time the children stood on the top landing and watched them go down.

They stood at the bottom of the stair on the ground floor and looked at one another.

“What d’you reckon?” Wharton was the first to speak.

Doyle shrugged. “Can’t think why anyone would bother. If she doesn’t even _know_ if she has enemies. What’s the point?”

“One of the kids?”

“Maybe. Are any old enough to study Chemistry?”

Wharton’s turn to shrug.

“Well. Let’s try the neighbours.”

Mr. Massey, the man in Flat A, didn’t seem surprised to see them. “She called you, did she?”

“You knew about the break-in?”

“She stopped me when I got in from work. I told her she should ‘phone the police.”

“Were you at work all day?”

“I was.” Crisp. Controlled. It seemed incredible that he lived in the same house as Mrs. Davison.

“So you wouldn’t have seen anything?”

“No.”

“Have you seen anything or anyone suspicious in the area before today?”

“No. But I’ve only been here for a few months. Before that this was a council flat. The last tenants bought it from the council, and then sold almost immediately. And that one -“ He pointed to the ceiling. “- it’s still with the council. You could try the Housing Department. They might have records.”

The other neighbours had even less to offer.

“Well, do we try the Housing Department?”

Doyle shook his head. “No. They’d only be interested in the rent. We’ll check the books when we go back. But we’re not going to get anything. It’s obvious.”

“People are very, very strange.” Slowly, through closed teeth.

“No? Logical as computers, each and every one.” They were on their way back to the station.

“She didn’t ... _really_ seem to be that concerned about it. Keen to tell us, but ... not worried about them coming back.”

“I know.”

* * * * *

The Home Secretary submitted the Scarman Report to Parliament while “B” relief was on nights.

“The Sun” summarised six months’ work with “Scarman says: Get the bobby back on the beat”.

_What the fuck does he think I’ve been doing for the last fourteen years?_

“The Daily Telegraph” gave slightly more information: “Scarman criticises the police and inner city

policy”.

There was nothing about savage jungle rhythms, or IRUs for every district, or reintroducing the Riot Act of 1714 - or not from Lord Scarman, at any rate. The canteen was furious - the kindest thing they called Scarman was “animal lover”. An old rumour revived that a PC had died of injuries received in Brixton and it had all been hushed up.

“Racists on the force. Gotta get rid of racists on the force, he says.” This was Medland. “Do _you_ know any racists?” A roomful of shaking heads - or none nodding, anyway. “Right. I’ll tell you the one who’s racist. I’ll tell you. It’s _him_ , isn’t it? Against _us_. Against respectable hard-working whites. Not even allowed to tell the truth anymore about what we see the niggers doing every day on the streets. They should be thrown out of the country - Enoch Powell was right - not given more money for ... sports centres. _Our_ money, that we worked hard for. I don’t know what the country’s coming to.”

On Tuesday afternoon Doyle went to the nearest HMSO bookshop and bought himself a copy. By the time he left for work he was feeling very, very depressed.

It was a combination of things. The description of the riots themselves was amazingly vivid for a Government report - Scarman had missed his vocation as a writer of thrillers - and it brought it all back. Then there was the grinding description of conditions in Brixton, the language now dry and full of statistics, but speaking eloquently of wasted and discarded lives. Or did it just seem like that because he was thinking of 23b Scutari Terrace? And then there were the endless criticisms of the police, presented almost as an army of occupation in Brixton. Or was he just hearing the paragraphs spoken in Garrett’s voice, or in Pete’s?

Where was the other side of the story? He looked hard, and the only criticism he could find of the people of Brixton was that black parents didn’t get involved enough in their children’s schools. There was no clear direction for dealing with future riots.

There _were_ positive notes. The report singled out the serials in Effra Parade _and_ the system of Tutor Constables for praise, but this was nowhere near enough for Doyle.

He was fed up being British. He was fed up being in the force. He wanted to leave it all behind, like a snake shedding its skin. Come back later, maybe, when they’d sorted it all out. It was autumn, anyway, a time for retreat.

Later, on patrol with Wharton, he said he’d no intention of reading the report. “Be boring as hell. Just wind you up. It won’t make any difference, anyway. The lads’ll never wear it. I mean, you’ve heard ‘em.”

“But if there’s legislation ...?”

Doyle shrugged.

* * * * *

Shortly past midnight on Wednesday night, they were sitting in the car talking about music, when they both stopped dead at the words “Scutari Terrace”. It wasn’t a break-in this time, but a garbled story about a strange smell, and this time the call came from Flat A.

The lights were on in the bay window of the ground floor flat, although the rest of the house was in darkness. Mr. Massey opened the door before they’d even pressed the buzzer. He didn’t recognise them at first - only made the connection when Doyle asked about acid.

“Acid? No, it’s petrol.”

“Petrol?”

“Yes. I’ve been sleeping badly because of all of this trouble. And I woke up because of some sound upstairs, and then I smelt it. Well, look, come through, and you’ll see.”

As the man led them through to the back of the house, Doyle said, “I thought you said before that you hadn’t seen anything suspicious. That you’d just moved in a few months ago. Did something else happen after the break-in?”

The man turned in the doorway between living room and kitchen. “You mean you don’t know?”

The two policemen raised their eyebrows.

“It was on Friday evening. And then on Sunday morning.

“I came home early on Friday because a client cancelled, and I found there was a fire in the rubbish bins around the side of the house, underneath my kitchen window. It was nearly out, anyway - it had started drizzling - but I called the police anyway. Never heard anything.

“And on Sunday morning I was woken up by some sound at the front door - the one to the house. I went to open it, but I could smell smoke, so I looked through the bay window, and there was _another_ bag of rubbish, only this one really was on fire. My girlfriend got a bucket of water and we put it out and I called the police _again_.”

He stopped and sighed. “So you understand why I can’t just turn over and go back to sleep when I smell petrol in the house. I thought you would have _heard_ about this. Isn’t that what I pay my rates for?”

“Are you sure the petrol _is_ in the house? Not from one of the gardens, maybe? Someone mending a motor-bike? Or a lawnmower?”

“A lawnmower in November? Look, can you smell it?” They were at the back of the small, smart kitchen, nearly in the extension.

“Yes,” said Doyle and Wharton nearly in unison.

“Well, it’s worst here, but I first smelt it in the bedroom.” He pointed to the area behind the living room. “And if you come out into the garden ...” He busied himself with locks.

“Mmm,” said Doyle. “You’re sure it’s coming from upstairs? It couldn’t be in here?”

“I do not cook with petrol. I’m worried. I think something is about to happen.”

“How long ago was it that you heard sounds upstairs?”

A glance at the kitchen clock. “Um. About twenty minutes ago.”

Doyle told Wharton to press the buzzer for Flat B. They waited. The house was silent.

“Try again.”

Still silent.

Doyle climbed the stairs and banged on the door very loudly. It would have woken anyone _he_ knew. He sniffed at the gap between the door and the frame. Massey _must_ be right. What on earth was going on? He went down again.

“Do they have a ‘phone?”

“No.”

Doyle frowned, and thought for some moments. “I’m going to call the station. See what else we can do.”

“Can’t you get a search warrant? For potential arson or something.”

“We’ll see.”

“Well, I’m not staying in this house. I’m going to wait in the car.”

Inspector Saxton arrived ten minutes later with Sergeant Douglas. They got no more result with the buzzer and the door than the constables had. Lights were going on in other houses in the street, and net curtains were twitching.

Was the family lying in there over-come by fumes?

“Is there another way in?” asked the inspector.

“Round the back. If we can get a ladder.”

“Ask him.”

Doyle tapped on the window of Massey’s car, and got directions to a stepladder. The policemen all went through the flat to the garden. Saxton clambered onto the roof of the ground floor extension, and peered through a window. “It’s the bathroom,” he called down. “I can’t see anyone.”

He knocked on the wooden frame in the middle of the window, and the rattling sound seemed to echo around the adjoining gardens. More lights went on. Then he tried to open it, but without success. He climbed down.

“I could smell it, alright. The whole flat could be filled with it. We have to get the Fire Brigade in. It’s a matter of public safety.”

They sent an engine and four firemen, just in case. One fireman broke down the front door, then they all trooped in and started a methodical search while the policemen waited at the bottom of the stairs.

“Oy, what’s going on here?” An angry male voice.

“Wha’d’you think you’re doing?” An female voice that Doyle recognised. He couldn’t hear the firemen’s response.

After a few minutes he caught a glimpse of Mr. Davison, who had come down to the first floor to continue the argument. He was a large man with black curly hair and a beergut. Seeing him on the street, Doyle would have guessed that he was Welsh, but there was no sign of it in his voice. Mrs. Davison followed him down, then several pairs of small bare legs came into view at the top of the stairs, curtained by ragged-hemmed nightdresses, and threadbare pyjamas of indeterminate colour.

The smell was quickly traced to its source, and the policemen were called into the flat to see the several gallons of petrol in the bath.

“What are you doing with petrol in the bath?” asked Saxton, very slowly and deliberately.

“Not against the law, is it?” Mrs. Davison seemed to have no volume control on her voice. Maybe she was partially deaf?

“It could be very dangerous, especially with children around.”

A shrug. “They wouldn’t do anything.”

Doyle believed that. The children (he counted six now), had come down to the first floor and were now hovering around the ten adults on the landing. They were almost completely silent, just whispering to one another, which he knew would _not_ have been the case at the Arnolds. They _must_ have been woken by the buzzer and the knocking, but they’d just stayed quiet in their bedrooms. The Victorians would have been delighted with them, but Doyle was uneasy.

A little boy (maybe Elvis?) was creeping forward, trying to see into the bathroom. Doyle saw one of the firemen straighten up, and guessed he was about to step backwards into the space that was now occupied by the boy. Neither the fireman nor the boy was aware of the other, so Doyle stepped forward quickly, and pulled the boy out of danger with a hand on his shoulder.

“Nearly got your toes squashed flat there. Got great big boots, haven’t they, firemen?” He smiled, friendly and reassuring.

The child stared at him, glanced back to check on the boots, looked down at his own bare feet, then grinned up at Doyle. “Squashed flat.”

“That’s right.” Doyle squatted down. “It’s ... Elvis, is it?”

“ _Tony_.” Very indignant.

“Of course. Hello, Tony. I’m Ray.”

They talked for a while about firemen and policemen and working at night and being woken up. Doyle had been hoping to find out if the children had been told to stay in bed, but he was disappointed.

The group in and around the bathroom started to break up.

“Tony! Get back to your room! All of you!” Tony fled without a backwards glance at Doyle, and there was a stampede up the stairs.

No one could think of a single thing to charge the Davisons with. There _was_ no law against keeping petrol in the bath - the problems only started when you set light to it.

The policemen trooped back to the canteen, and spent many minutes discussing the oddities of human behaviour, and fantasising about arresting the couple for being a pain in the arse. Doyle joined in, but became thoughtful once back in the car.

Tony had been very, very thin. He knew what the shoulder of a thriving six-year-old felt like, and it did not feel like Tony’s. And the child looked old. Something grey about his face - dull in his eyes.

_Should I call in Social Services? Or the NSPCC?_

He drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly.

_But he seemed a lively-enough kid. Not frightened to talk to me. Maybe it was just lack of sleep._

_They’re poor, that’s all. Not all that bright, too. But that’s not a crime. Doesn’t stop people bringing up decent kids. If you don’t give people a chance ..._

He nodded to himself.

_I’m just ... over-sensitive about kids. Because of Bodie. Stupid ideas about rescuing him. Looking for a chance to make up, even now. No. I’ve made enough mistakes. Best thing is to do nothing at all._

“What d’you think is going on in that house?” Wharton had also been silent and thoughtful.

Doyle shrugged. “Wait till you’ve been in the job for more than four months. You won’t waste time worrying about prats like the Davisons. They’re probably working some pathetic little scam.”

“Mmm.” Sceptical. “What d’you make of the kids? They seem ... well -“

“Nothing a good wash wouldn’t put right. Soon’s they clear the bath out you won’t recognise them.”

Wharton let it drop.

* * * * *

Even though Lord Scarman had said nothing in his report about the IRUs, or about the very idea of having specialist riot squads on permanent standby, the question of disbanding them was never seriously raised in the subsequent debates. Instead, they became more formalised, and some people started building their careers on them. The training was improved, and secondment lost the feeling of emergency - the minimum period was three months, and you applied, rather than being drafted. MacKenzie’s name was first on the list.

* * * * *

Over the long weekly leave, Doyle found himself missing Garrett’s computer again.

The weather was foul - bitterly cold, with wind and rain - and there was no pleasure in being out of doors. He went running on Friday morning, and learnt his lesson. The tree was still there, of course, but sometimes when he watched it, he thought of Woods, and that spoilt everything. He couldn’t concentrate on any book, and his lip curled as he surveyed his tapes and records.

Writing programs, that was the thing for the long winter evenings. Cosy, with the glow of the screen, and a pot of coffee, and a glass of something warming. Pure, Ruth had called it. No Woods. No stupid paragraphs of description to wade through, or idiot characters who didn’t know they were born. Nobody singing about love.

_Maybe I should buy one. Could be a long, long winter._

But he had no idea where to start.

* * * * *

His second week of earlies with Wharton started on the Monday. Wharton had been home for the weekend, mentioned seeing his mates and his girlfriend. He didn’t give her name, and Doyle didn’t ask.

On Friday morning as he arrived at the station, he noticed from the state of the car park that a lot of the CID were already in. _‘bout time they did some work._ Curious, he wandered upstairs before parade.

“What’s brought you lot in so early? Something happened, or something about to happen?”

“Morning, Ray. House burnt down last night. Looks like arson. Three kids killed.”

He opened his mouth, then swallowed. “Scutari Terrace?”

“God, news travels fast. Sickening, isn’t it? Slags like that shouldn’t be allowed to have kids. I’ve always said so.”

“What happened?”

“I thought you knew?”

A shake of the head.

“Oh. Well. Fire started in the sitting room. ‘bout three this morning. Dunno how yet, but this Davison reckons someone threw a petrol bomb through the window - says he heard the crash. Anyway, he says his wife - common- _law_ , of course - saw flames in the room, so he went downstairs. What does he do? Opens the door, so it all flares up. And then _leaves_ it open, so the smoke and everything gets out into the stairway, and then _woosh_ upstairs.

“So he yells to the kids - six, they’ve got with them, three his and three hers, and she’s got _another_ six scattered all over the country - anyway, he yells to them to get back into their rooms and _lock_ the _doors_. Can you believe it?

“Then he opens the window of his own bedroom and climbs out onto the roof of this extension out the back. So _he’s_ OK. She climbs out too, and then neighbours start arriving with ladders, and they manage to get some of the kids out of another window. One neighbour actually broke in the front door and made his way through the house with a blanket over his head and found one of the kids wandering around downstairs and carried him out.

“By the time we got there and the Fire Brigade it was all over really. One of the kids fell from a window and broke her neck. And the other two ...” A shrug. “... just never got out of the bedrooms. Not even out of bed. They were just ... lying there, hiding under the covers. With the door locked but burnt right through. And the parents ... Don’t. Seem. To give. A shit.”

“D’you know the names of the kids?”

“Um. Got the report here. Hang on. Jane. She was the one who fell. She was eleven. And then Tony - he was five - and Tammy - she was two. You knew them?”

 A shrug. “I’d been round there a couple of times. Haven’t you seen all the reports?”

“Gimme a break. This only happened a couple of hours ago.”

It was time for parade.

* * * * *

The inquest was a fortnight later, on the morning of Thursday the 3rd of December, while Doyle was on nights. He wasn’t being called as a witness, but he drove to the Coroner’s Court when he finished his shift, and waited in his car until the doors opened. He sat at the back, slouched low, with his hand half-covering his face.

He heard the Medical Examiner describe Tony, Jane and Tammy as moderately malnourished children. He watched Petra Davison look at the photographs of the bodies with no appearance of emotion. He heard that the Davisons had been trying to get re-housed for months. He heard an man who said that Petra Davison had approached him in a pub and offered to pay him to fire-bomb the house. He heard Mr. Massey describe at least five other bizarre attacks on the house and say that he heard movement and conversation on the first floor shortly before the fire broke out.

But the Met’s forensic scientist said there was no sign of a fire-bomb attack and every sign that it had been a slow, smouldering fire started by a cigarette, like 90% of house fires - the Davisons said that Mrs. Davison had been smoking at about midnight. He had decided that it was a coincidence, quite unconnected to the other incidents, and could have happened to any house at any time.

After four hours of evidence, the coroner was not satisfied, especially not with the police investigations. The detective inspector studied the floor as his work was criticised in terms that Doyle had not heard in all his years of attending inquests.

“If I was satisfied that it were an accident, I would bring in a verdict of accidental death. If I thought that it had been deliberately or recklessly caused, I would bring in a verdict of unlawful killing. In this case I have heard expert evidence, but there are a number of unanswered questions in all the circumstances, and I am not prepared to categorise it as an accident. I therefore record an open verdict in respect of each death.”

There was a murmur in the courtroom, especially from the press - open verdicts are not common.

Doyle waited until the police witnesses had left the room before getting up. He was on his way down the steps when he heard shouting behind him, and turned to see Mrs. Davison being dragged away from a photographer who had his hands cupped around his left eye, and his mouth open in pain.

* * * * *

The sky was clear. The tree cast a long shadow on the sparse grass beneath it. Doyle’s eyes were focused on a point in mid-air. He rocked slightly from side-to-side.

* * * * *

“D’you see the papers? About the inquest?” Wharton caught up with him in the car park.

“Yeah. Cigarette. Happens all the time.”

A pause. “That’s not what the coroner reckoned, way _I_ read it.”

Shrug. “They always think they know better than the experts. Make it up as they go along.”

“Oh.” Wharton said nothing more while they were getting changed. They’d both been very quiet over the last few weeks. Doyle had no more instructive anecdotes, no suggestions of a quick pint after work. The calls they took were determined more by Doyle’s need to get away from people than by Wharton’s need to gain experience. Wharton asked fewer and fewer questions, and finally stopped altogether.

* * * * *

Saturday night was the last shift of the six weeks of tutoring.

“You have to make a report on me to the Chief, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” Quite expressionless.

Wharton stopped fishing. There was nothing there but a rusty bicycle frame.

At the end of the shift Doyle drove south. It would be hours before the cemetery was open, but there was nothing else he wanted to do. He didn’t want to sleep - there were dreams waiting for him.

He had to stop himself running once he was through the gates. The row was longer - he could see that from yards away.

_Oh, God. Oh, God._

MATTHEW EARLE 1954-1981

This time he knew that the feeling was disappointment. Not that Bodie was alive. But because the end had not yet come.

He turned and left without glancing at Murphy’s grave.

* * * * *

The black clouds were back.

Despite himself, he slept.

When he lifted his face, grunting in puzzlement, from the rough and fusty material, it seemed to him that the clouds were exactly as they’d been when his eyes had closed, untouched by the wind that was whipping the tree, and piling litter against the fence. They had stayed like that all the time he’d been asleep.

_Watching me._

It was obvious now.

But what did they want?

“What do you want?”

A line of brightness gaped, then closed. A maw. Appetite. For what?

He watched until dark, but there was no other sign.

* * * * *

He dreamt of the desert. It had been a long time. The fire was nearly out, Bodie’s face just shadows with different degrees of darkness.

Then it changed. The body cradled in his arms changed. Light, and nearly warm, and the bones delicate as a bird’s under the thin, sweet-smelling skin. The fire died, and he closed his eyes against the shadows.

Then he was in the Arnold’s garden, kneeling on a bed of damp soil, under the lupin bushes that grew by the front fence. There was a streetlight above, turned away from the garden.

Just by his right knee was a biscuit tin, lined with letters. Carefully, he lifted the child, and placed him in the tin, all curled up; and somehow the child got small enough, or the tin got large enough. He brushed the back of his fingers against the feathery eyelashes, and the plump, smooth cheek. Then he was covering him with an old pyjama top, one with trains and aeroplanes in simple, bright colours, and with a green collar and cuffs.

He wasn’t alone in the garden now. He couldn’t see them, but they were standing at his back. He could feel the heat, hear them breathing, whispering, excited. As he leaned forward to press the lid down, the giggling started, and it seemed that it would never stop.

* * * * *

The impact with the window was what brought him fully awake. He was on his feet, face hard against the cold pane, hands pressed to his ears. It was the middle of the night, and a fierce wind was roaring around the building, cackling through the trees in a hundred different voices. He looked out at _his_ tree, which seemed to be moving with a demented life of its own, and at the moon which glowed green through the clouds, like something long drowned. And he knew then what the clouds were hungry for.

By the end of his leave, he had decided that the clouds were God, or what passed for God. They were the only sign he’d seen of purpose in the universe. It was obvious now - everything was designed only for its capacity to feel or to produce pain. Love existed only as a frame for betrayal.

How had he hidden from this knowledge for so long? How did _anyone_ hide from it? Didn’t every moment of every day show that there was something very wrong with humans?

And why had the clouds revealed themselves now? Because they were pleased with him? He must have given them a rich feast. What more did they want from him? What more was he capable of?

* * * * *

After that he tried to have as little as possible to do with the humans. It was self-preservation, as well as the desire to do no more damage.

The knowledge never left him, not for an instant. It was as if the clouds had descended to surround him, and he breathed in nothing but the black hunger, and the whisperings and the gigglings followed him everywhere.

He managed to work, hardly aware of what he was doing. The relief was understrength because of ‘flu, and he was on his own for most of the first week. It was best when they gave him a car, because that was somewhere to hide - when he was on foot, he had to search for places, and to do that he had to think about the humans.

Outside of work, he spent all of his time in the flat. He didn’t run. He didn’t shoot. He didn’t go shopping. He ate only in the canteen, and when he was on leave he went hungry, although the sensation was so trivial he never identified it. After he ran out of coffee and scotch, he drank nothing but water.

* * * * *

On Sunday the 20th of December, he had another dream, a new one. He was in a swimming pool, standing on the bottom, fully dressed. The surface of the water was about a foot above his head, but he was breathing, quite calm.

He knew he was in the shallow end of the pool, because the water was filled with pale turquoise light, like waves just before they break. Ahead, the water and the colour deepened, and he could not see the far end of the pool. Behind, leaning against the wooden rungs of a ladder, was the skeleton of a horse, picked quite clean.

He faced into the deep end, and started walking. The floor sloped downwards, and the water became colder.

There was something in the water ahead, moving towards him. He stopped walking.

It was a shark. It swam past to his left, less than two feet away from his head. He could see the rows of teeth, the black, dead eyes, feel the rush of the water around it.

Terror.

He could walk no more.

Another one, again on the left. It emerged from the darkness as if it had always been there, just waiting for him to see it. This time he turned, and watched it swim into the light, and carry on swimming long after it should have reached the end of the pool. Eventually he could see it no longer.

He turned back, and there were two, one on each side. After that he didn’t look towards the shallow end any more.

How long did he stand there? He didn’t know. The water got colder and colder, as if he was still heading forward, going to meet the sharks. The cold wasn’t uncomfortable - it was like armour pressed onto his skin.

The sharks never changed, never swam any closer to him. He wasn’t afraid any more. He watched the curves of the fins, the scars.

And then he reached out and touched one as it went by. It swam on, unswerving, as did the next, and the next.

* * * * *

When he woke up, he could remember clearly the cool, swift glide beneath his palm. It had been his first peaceful night for a very long time.

Such a straightforward dream. Was it sent as a reward? Because they were pleased with him? Could they really show such mercy?

He turned over in bed, and smiled, quite calm. There was no urgency. As soon as he’d realised that he could stop the pain whenever he wanted, it had shrunk back, no longer in control.

No urgency. He wanted to tidy up first, and then ... he was confident that he would know when the day had come.

* * * * *

The method did not worry him at all. He’d learnt from all of the failures he’d seen over the years.

He’d go down to the river in the middle of the night, when the disco-boats were long gone, and he’d wade in up to his hips at least, and then he’d pull the trigger. It might not kill him outright, but he’d probably lose consciousness, or at least be unable to stand up, and then he’d drown.

But the river was just to make sure. Ray Doyle was _not_ going to botch this. He started practising, arranging mirrors in a V on the dining table, learning the feel of the angle that would take out everything that mattered. At odd moments, the taste of gun-metal would come back to him, and make him smile.

* * * * *

There must be no fuss afterwards. That was important. He was going to tie the gun to one wrist, and a name-tag to the other, so they’d have all they needed when they found him. This was not a matter of being considerate - that never occurred to him. He simply didn’t want the humans thinking about him, speculating about him, getting anywhere close to his life.

So he was going to dismantle it beforehand, so they’d find nothing but the clothes he’d killed himself in, his uniform, and his car.

Bit by bit, he threw or gave things away. Small parcels to charity shops and jumble sales - nothing large enough to make people comment, and not too often to the same places. The video went back to the rental shop, the TV and stereo to junk shops far from Kentish Town. He threw away his address book early on. He never bought a diary for 1982. He bought a will form from a stationers, and filled it out himself, leaving everything to the NSPCC. They would get quite a few thousand - what had he had to spend it on recently?

Mostly it was a relief to strip himself of these old ties to humanity. The angel glasses, though ... And his mother’s books ...

Not that they were an argument for staying. On the contrary.

But he wished that he didn’t have to kill all of his brain, that he could have separated his memories of the people who had loved him, and have them live on somewhere where there was no pain.

Maybe the clouds would do that for him. As another reward. After all, he was doing exactly what they wanted. For his own sake, yes, but also for theirs. And they were not hungry any more, not for him. Maybe he’d passed some test.

He knelt by the armchair, looking out of the window, and asked them silently. He felt calmer afterwards, which seemed to be their answer.

Still, for Bodie at least he wanted more than that. It became more and more important to him in the days after he gave the glasses away.

He wanted them to grant Bodie immunity. He wanted them to leave Bodie alone to take whatever chances were still left to him.

_You’ve had so much from him. Please let him go. There’ll be others. You know that._

He had a brief dream one night after that about lying in Bodie’s arms while Bodie slept. It seemed clear enough.

* * * * *

He was back in the area car and MacKenzie was still away and Woods appeared not to have made any New Year Resolutions. It didn’t matter. Any day could be the last day. It was like a wonderful, powerful secret.

There was a list of things that he would never do again. He worked on it in idle moments: eat in a restaurant, go outside London, drink a pint, have sex. None of it made him sad.

He was shutting everything down quite methodically, inside and outside. He barely ate. He was always cold. He was impotent, as far as he could tell. He was getting further and further away from life, and soon he would slip out of its sight altogether.

No one seemed to notice. He was easy to be with these days, relaxed, but quiet. Woods suggested squash, told him whenever a group was heading down the pub - Doyle just smiled and shook his head.

He’d stopped going to West Norwood. It was pointless. He’d already made his decision, and Bodie would be alright now.

February came round, and the flat was nearly empty except for the items that were listed on the inventory. Everything else, he’d throw in the bins outside before getting in his car and heading for the bleakest part of docklands.

During the second week, they were on nights. The weather improved steadily as the week went on, and it seemed clear that the worst of the winter was over. The shops were full of Valentine’s cards.

Doyle did not want to see spring.

It was time.

* * * * *

Tuesday was the first day of his leave, but he’d decided against Tuesday night. He needed a day to get his uniform cleaned after his last shift - he would leave nothing of himself for the humans, not even his sweat. It would be Wednesday night then, or, rather, Thursday morning. Thursday the 18th.

On Wednesday afternoon he collected his uniform, and started getting everything ready.

There would be two notes. One to be left on the dining table with the will, giving final instructions. The other to be pushed through his landlord’s letterbox on the way to docklands, giving the keys. He wanted there to be no mystery.

The waterproof name-tag had been made up some weeks before. The plan was to tie the tag (and the gun) to his wrists with twine. He’d looked around and selected some that was part-rope, part-plastic - after some tests he was sure it would stay tied underwater, and not rot away before he was found. He cut two lengths, but the knotting would wait until he was at the water’s edge.

The gun: cleaned with great care, then loaded, and shut in its case ready for the journey.

He went through the flat from top to bottom, clearing the remaining items from cupboards, bookcases, and drawers, wiping surfaces, hoovering. Then he had a final shower, and changed into his best jeans, a green-grey jumper, and the leather jacket, which he never _had_ sent to be cleaned. There was nothing in the wardrobes now except his uniform.

It was only seven in the evening. At least seven hours to wait. He was used to waiting.

The streetlights had been on for over an hour. People were arriving home. It was a clear night, as far as he could tell through the haze of the city. The moon was crisp and sharp, no cloud in sight.

He waited.

The pubs shut. The last tube reached the end of the line. The street fell silent.

He waited.

He’d leave at two thirty. Get there around three. Wait some more, if necessary, until the river was his alone.

It was two o’clock. Not long now. He’d throw his watch away with the rest of the rubbish.

In his mind’s eye, he could see the place he’d chosen. The steps down to the river. The rotting warehouses all around. The soft sound of the water. He was standing half-way down the steps, the twine tight and rough around his wrists. He imagined the first step into the water, then moving further out, up to his knees, his thighs, his hips. _Be ready for the cold. Just keep moving. It won’t be for long._ Opening his mouth, using the fingers of his left hand as a guide to give the correct angle, just as he’d rehearsed. Then ... no point wondering what chance would do to him.

He’d spent some weeks with the River Police as a probationer. He knew the rest of the story, could play this part through, too.

They’d probably be on the lookout for him after the landlord got the note, scanning the banks from the launch. A shout carrying over the noise of the engine. A pointing arm. A change of course, then slowing down.

Seen first as a small patch of white, all that picks the object out from the Thames mud. Closer, and the limbs emerge from the background. Closer still ...

It was Bodie.

“No!” He was on his feet, fists pressed against the window. “Leave him alone! You promised ...”

Oh, but why should they keep any promise? He was the one who had come up with the idea of a reward, tried to bargain. When all along he’d known what they were, what they really wanted.

What had they done?

“Bodie! Bodie!” He searched the night sky, panting, then whirled round to the dimly-lit living room. West Norwood. He’d get over the walls somehow. And afterwards ... It wouldn’t make any difference, but he _had_ to know.

The car keys were on the side-table, next to the lamp and the ‘phone.

The ‘phone.

He swallowed hard, picked the receiver up, and held it to his ear. The number? Oh, God, it had been a year and a half. He’d thrown it away. And it wasn’t listed. Bodie had said.

 _No. Don’t panic._ He closed his eyes. _Picture his flat. Picture the ‘phone in the living room. And the card in the centre of the dial. Read it._ And he could.

The ‘phone was ringing.

Still ringing.

“Ooah.” A cough. “Three seven.”

Doyle’s knees buckled.

“Hello.” Another cough. “Who _is_ this?”

The receiver clattered back onto the hook.

Nothing in his hard-working imagination had prepared him for the effect of hearing Bodie’s voice. Not a memory. Not a dream. Now.

He wanted it again. Now. The river could wait.

He picked up the ‘phone again.

Just three rings this time.

“Look, who _is_ this? What do you want?”

“Bo...die?”

“Yeah. Who is this? D’you know what time it is?” A pause. A long pause. “ _Ray_? Ray, is that you? Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I - Oh.” Two panting breaths. “Bodie.”

“Ray. Come round. Or I’ll come to you. Are you still at the same place?”

“Yeah, but -“ The flat was on the shores of death, the waters lapping just under the window-sills. He didn’t want Bodie to come anywhere near it. “Can I really see you?”

“You know you can. Any time.”

“Now?”

“Course. Soon’s you can get round. Or I could come and pick you up. Whatever you want.”

“I’ll - I’ll - See you, Bodie.”


	22. Heat-Trace - Chapter 20

## Chapter 20

Bodie sat completely still in bed, the buzzing receiver still pressed to his right ear.

Had he just dreamt that? It wouldn’t be the first time. But in all the dreams Ray had been able to finish any sentence he started.

He put the ‘phone down, then rubbed his hands hard over his face and through his hair, trying to wake himself up. The near-freezing temperature helped.

The alarm clock said 2:17. He had at most fifteen minutes to get ready.

On with the bedside light. Throw back the covers. Struggle, shivering, into a warm dressing gown. Into the kitchen to turn on the central heating. A shower - and sod the neighbours. Anyway, they should be used to him by now.

The first thing out of the chest of drawers was an ancient tracksuit, once royal blue, now nearly grey, and worn thin in places. But it was comfortable, which was why he’d never thrown it away. Y-fronts, but no socks.

Turn on some side lights in the living room. Clear the mugs and glasses and files from the coffee table. Close the bedroom doors.

The entryphone buzzed. He wasn’t ready for this, whatever it was going to be.

“Hello?”

“Bodie? You said -“

“Come in, Ray.” Nothing was going to make him sloppy about security.

He opened the door of the flat, and waited. Off to the right, the lift started up, stopped, then started again. He counted the floors. A shadow thrown from the stairwell. Footsteps in the corridor.

There was no real expression on his face, or none that Bodie could classify. Mouth open a fraction of an inch. Eyes slightly widened, and meeting Bodie’s own - but not staring. Breathing undisturbed. No sign that he was going to move or speak.

Bodie had wondered if, without even a photograph for reference, his memories and dreams had become exaggerations. Now he knew that they hadn’t. But he couldn’t greet Ray as he wanted. And he’d got used to the idea that he would never touch him again.

Another dog died, probably. Just got off lates and couldn’t sleep and ... He knew Ray.

“Well, come in. No point in freezing out here. Make yourself comfortable. Tea? Coffee?” He didn’t offer alcohol, though it was what he wanted himself - mustn’t make it look as if he was trying to get Ray to stay the night.

No response, though Doyle followed him into the living room.

“Well, I’ll have a tea, I think. ‘n’ you might feel like one later on.”

The kettle was nearly empty. He filled it, switched it on, then fetched mugs from the rack, tea-bags from the tin, and milk from the fridge. Ray was standing in the doorway. Bodie didn’t turn to look at him, just stood with his fingertips resting on the counter, listening to the small popping sounds from the kettle, wondering how miserable they would make each other this time. Why hurry things?

Doyle took a few steps forward, which brought him inches from Bodie’s right side. Bodie kept his eyes fixed on the kettle. He swallowed, though, when warm fingers curled around his upper arm, holding it gently. Then Doyle moved closer, and bent to rest his cheek against the hollow of Bodie’s shoulder, and stayed like that, breathing slowly, as if he was never going to move again.

Bodie turned his head.

Ray’s eyes were closed. His lips were pressed against the threadbare material.

How could you ever protect yourself against him? It wasn’t possible.

Doyle sighed as a hand settled on his hair, and he rolled his face against the curve of the strong shoulder. He didn’t open his eyes.

Eventually, long after the kettle had boiled, a series of subtle shiftings and wordless hints from Bodie brought them to stand chest to chest, each holding the other close with hands on hips or spine or head. Bodie’s eyes were closed, too.

He had the beginnings of an erection - had had since Ray had taken hold of his arm. But it wasn’t going to be a problem. Not with Ray like this.

He’d been starving himself - it was obvious, just from the feel of his arms and his back through the leather. And he was exhausted, his limbs and joints emptied of energy as Bodie had never before known them, not even in sleep. Did he even know where he was? It seemed doubtful. No point trying to talk to him yet: it wouldn’t reach him - he was far away.

* * * * *

Bodie’s chin dipped slowly, and then jerked up. He opened his eyes, blinked them, and then looked over Doyle’s head at the controls for the central heating. It was about three thirty.

“Ray?” Nearly a whisper. “Ray? How about lying down? Get some proper rest?”

No response at all for several seconds, then the arms around his back loosened slightly.

He turned his hand and ran the back of his fingers through the curly hair. “OK?”

Doyle straightened up, arms hanging by his side. He seemed to be looking at the wall by the light-switch. Bodie put an arm around his shoulder and steered him slowly towards the bedroom.

“Just sit down here, Ray. Won’t be a second.” Bodie crossed round to the other side of the bed and the chest-of-drawers. The pyjamas were in the second drawer that he tried - it had been years since he’d worn them. Burgundy with black piping and buttons, a present from a girl whose name he’d long forgotten.

Doyle was still sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at the floor. “Let’s get you comfortable, eh?” He knelt down and removed Doyle’s trainers and socks, then stood up, bringing the other man with him.

The jacket came off easily, and Bodie let it drop to the floor behind Doyle. He unfastened the jeans - almost baggy on him now - and knelt again to help him step out of them. The pyjama trousers were nearly falling off him. Off with the jumper. “Just lift your arms, Ray.” Helping his head through the neck. Then Bodie was buttoning the pyjama jacket, and swallowing hard as he thought of those ribs.

“There. Now slip in.” With coaxing, Doyle sat again on the edge of the bed, then lay down, flat on his back, arms by his side. Bodie drew up the covers, and stroked his right hand briefly, reassurance for both of them, then walked round to the side of the bed by the window, closing the doors on the way.

“Ray?” Turned towards him, hand resting on the side of his face, but not presuming to hold, not yet, not without permission.

Doyle closed his eyes, and rolled towards the window, arms reaching out. They settled shortly with Bodie lying on his back, and Doyle curled over him, head resting below his shoulder, much as they’d been in the kitchen.

There was silence except for slow, steady breathing. Bodie was asleep by four.

* * * * *

Bodie woke before the alarm went off, as he usually did. He remembered the events of the night almost immediately, even though Doyle was just a source of warmth lying close to his back. He lay still, not even turning to check the head on the pillow next to him. Ray needed every second of sleep he could get.

Two minutes before the alarm was due to sound, Bodie reached out slowly and turned it off. Then he eased himself out of bed, and padded to the doors. Ray was still facing the window, one hand tucked under the pillow Bodie had just left.

Bodie stood for some seconds over the ‘phone in the living room. Then he called CI5, and told an early arrival on the day shift that he’d come down with a second dose of ‘flu, and probably wouldn’t be in until Monday. At least he hadn’t had to speak to Cowley.

The mugs and the milk were still waiting in the kitchen. He switched the kettle on, put the tea-bags back in the tin, sniffed the milk, shrugged, and spooned coffee into the cafetière. While he waited for the kettle to boil, he looked out of the narrow window at the rows of rooftops and the steely February sky. There was a knot of apprehension in his stomach. What was going on? Could he cope with it, whatever it was?

He dealt with the coffee, then fetched the tray from the gap by the side of the fridge, and loaded it up.

Doyle was awake. Bodie met his eyes as he heeled the door open. Still the same, uninformative expression. Bodie matched it. This time, though, Doyle turned his head to follow the other man’s progress to the bedside table.

Bodie propped his pillows against the headboard and sat up, knees slightly raised. “You still take it white, no sugar?”

A jerky swallow.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He leaned over and pressed the plunger, then poured and stirred. “There you go.”

Doyle looked at the proffered mug, then at Bodie’s face, eyes widened slightly. Then he levered himself up, clumsily, like an invalid, and sat with his hands resting on the covers, head bowed. Bodie lowered the mug towards those hands, and after some seconds they lifted and took it from him.

He poured his own coffee, and sat sipping it, studying the face next to him. There _was_ an expression. It was defeat. Resignation. He looked as if he’d been beaten up every day of his life.

“Oh, Ray. What’ve you been doing to yourself, then?” Rueful, knowing once again that he was going to see this through to the end, now matter how bitter it was this time round.

Doyle hunched around his mug, and turned his face away, eyes closing.

Bodie couldn’t bear it. “Oh, Ray, don’t.” He put an arm lightly around the bony shoulders, and instantly Doyle leaned towards him. Bodie moved the remaining inches, and they sat pressed tight.

* * * * *

“Are you going to drink that coffee?” Gently.

Doyle lifted the mug obediently.

“Only if you want to.” He stretched out his free hand, but Doyle shook his head, and then emptied the mug in a few mouthfuls.

“More?”

A shake of the head.

Bodie took the mug and placed it next to his own on the tray. When he turned back, Doyle reached for his left hand, and held it in both of his, studying it, turning it, stroking it. Bodie said nothing.

“You’ll have to go to work.”

Bodie blinked. He’d been drifting with the rhythm of Doyle’s hands. “No. I called in sick.”

Anxious eyes. “What’s wrong with you?”

A smile. “Nothing. I just thought ... I’d better keep you company.” A pause. “What about you?”

Confusion. Starting to panic.

What had he thought the question was? “What shift are you on today?”

Relief. “I’m on leave till ... uh ...” A frown. Real effort of concentration. “Um. Saturday.”

“Oh, that’s OK then.”

* * * * *

The ‘phone rang. Bodie knew it would be Cowley. He took his time answering, and coughed several times before picking it up to get himself in the right frame of mind.

“Checking up on me,” he said when it was over. “Case I’ve nipped off somewhere for a long weekend.” He pulled a face.

A minute smile. Beautiful.

“What d’you want to do?”

Blankness.

“Just stay here? That’s fine. Let’s lie down, shall we? Catch up with some sleep.”

They lay as they had earlier, though this time Bodie was more confident, and he let his hands drift through Doyle’s hair, and up and down his back, stilling them only when the other man fell asleep.

“Dunno about you, but I’m starving. What d’you fancy for lunch?” No reply, but he hadn’t been expecting one. “Scrambled egg on toast? Bacon sarnie?” Eugh. OK, no bacon sarnie, then. “Chicken soup?”

“Not hungry.” Very small voice.

“Well, you bloody ought to be. Skin and bones, you are.” More gently, “Will you try some scrambled eggs if I make it?”

A nod.

* * * * *

“You don’t have to get up, you know. We run to Room Service here.”

Doyle just shook his head and straightened the pyjama jacket.

“Are you warm enough? The dressing gown’s on the door there.”

Another shake of the head, this time refusing the dressing gown.

Bodie carried the tray through, and put it out of the way on the far side of the sink. When he straightened up from the fridge, egg-box in hand, Doyle squeezed past him, and started on the washing up. Bodie opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it.

* * * * *

“That wasn’t too bad, was it?”

A slightly larger smile.

Pause. “How long have you been starving yourself, Ray?”

A shrug.

“A month? Two? Three? Six?”

“’bout three, I s’pose.” Even and indifferent.

“Mmm.” Enough for now.

Bodie collected the plates and glasses and dumped them in the sink, then returned and stood by Doyle’s chair.

“Bed?” Doyle took the proffered hand and stood up, and they went through to the bedroom once again.

* * * * *

It was dark outside, although the working day was not yet over. The bedroom was lit by the lamp that had been on since Bodie had got out of bed to get ready for Doyle. Neither was asleep.

“Ray? How about watching some TV? I’ve got a video now, too.”

A short sigh.

“OK. Not TV. Music? Sit on the sofa like this.” He tightened his arms briefly. “Have a drink. Nice and quiet.”

Silence. Bodie nodded to himself and closed his eyes, settling down for the few hours it would take until his stomach started rumbling again.

“Uh. Where you going?”

“You said ...”

“You want to?” Obviously not, but never mind. “We can come back here if you get bored.”

* * * * *

“D’you want to pick something out? There’s _some_ new stuff. And your tapes are up on the left there.” Doyle wandered over to the shelves, and stood with his right hand on top of a row of records, apparently looking through them. “Gin ‘n’ tonic do you?” Bodie asked from the kitchen. “I’ve even got some lemon in for a change.” He didn’t bother watching for a nod.

“Found anything? I know it’s not a great choice. How about some classical? You like this one, don’t you?” He’d learnt that you couldn’t go wrong with “The Four Seasons”.

Doyle sat in the circle of Bodie’s arm, his drink held untasted in his lap.

The record finished. Bodie made no move to turn it over. There were noises in the corridor as Bodie’s neighbours started coming back from work.

“Hey, nearly spilt that. Here, let me.” Bodie bent to put the full glass on the carpet next to his empty one.

A conversation outside, moving from left to right - heading out again for the evening. A cold hand settled on Bodie’s right leg, just above the knee. He sighed softly, and tilted his head towards the other man.

Footsteps upstairs.

“Bodie?” Two slow breaths. “Are you alright?”

Raised eyebrows and a lopsided smile. “I’m fine, Ray. Never been better.” Quiet and serious.

Nodding slowly for some seconds. “Better without me.” To himself.

“That’s not ... how I’d put it. I’m glad ... you’re here, Ray. I’ve missed you.”

Silence.

* * * * *

“No, don’t panic. I’ve just got to go to the loo.”

He washed his face and brushed his teeth, too, then ran a hand over his stubble, and shook his head. It could wait. Till he felt Ray was up to taking a shower.

Back in the living room he found that Doyle had rolled onto his side on the settee, and was half curled up, arms wrapped around his face. Outwardly calm, but heart pounding, he pushed the coffee table and the glasses out of the way, and knelt, one hand on Doyle’s hair, the other on his right arm.

“It’s alright, Ray. It’s alright.” Stupid thing to say, he thought immediately afterwards. Better silence than empty reassurances. He shifted until he was leaning against the cushion, and then was still except for a thumb slowly stroking Doyle’s forehead. Doyle’s eyes were closed.

Bodie’s feet were going numb. He wiggled his toes, trying to stave it off, then resigned himself to the future discomfort. He was getting hungry, too, but this time he’d keep quiet about it. He propped his head on his shoulder, and closed his eyes.

A fleeting touch against his throat. “Uh.” Doyle was watching him, right hand still raised. They looked at one another for a long time, then Doyle curved his hand around the back of Bodie’s neck, and drew him close. Bodie’s hair grazed Doyle’s chin, warm and soft, rubbing slightly as Bodie breathed. Doyle’s hand lay between Bodie’s shoulder-blades, Bodie’s on Doyle’s waist.

* * * * *

“You loved me.” Almost inaudible, but Bodie’s ear was inches from Doyle’s mouth.

“I still do.”

“You shouldn’t. I -“

“I’ll always love you.”

“ _No_.” A protest. “You mustn’t. I did terrible things to you. I never gave you anything. I wish you’d never met me.”

Bodie raised his head, and stared at him. “You must be talking about a different Ray Doyle. Not the one who saved my life. The one who made me _feel_ alive for the first time. The one I think of every day and want to thank for what he did for me.”

“You can’t.”

“I can. Of course I can. Look.” He leaned forward and pressed his lips to Doyle’s, just for a few seconds. “See?”

Doyle looked stricken. He raised his hand to his lips, breathing raggedly.

Bodie felt he was starting to piece things together. He grasped the hand, drew it gently to the side, and leaned forward again. This time he opened his mouth, and coaxed at Doyle’s lips till they let him in. Ray’s mouth tasted sour, but he’d been expecting that and it made no difference. Just the lightest of touches, asking for nothing.

“See?”

And again. The mouth under his was still, maybe tense, but that didn’t worry him. Ray wasn’t capable of responding at the moment, maybe never would be, but he needed this proof, and it cost Bodie little to give it.

“So don’t tell me I can’t love you.”

A deep breath. “All this time?”

“Always.” Bodie kissed the hand he was still holding, and laid his head back on the cushion by Doyle’s chest, and there was silence again.

* * * * *

The block was going to bed. Around them were voices and footsteps and running water.

“You’ll want to go to bed.”

Bodie stirred. He’d been drifting, musing, trusting to the effects of time. “Not bothered. Had loads of sleep today. But we can if you like.”

A long pause. “I ought to go home. You’ve got work tomorrow.”

“You’ve got to be joking. They owe me more sick leave than I can count. You’re staying here.”

“I _can’t_.”

“Why not?”

No answer.

“Maybe we should go to bed, eh? s’getting chilly. Heating’s switched itself off. I’ll get you a fresh pair of pyjamas. Or something warmer.” He made to stand up, but his legs wouldn’t obey him. “Aaa!” He was flat on his back on the floor.

“Bodie!”

He reached up and caught Doyle’s arm. “s’OK. Legs just went to sleep.” A grimace. “They’re waking up now. God, I don’t half feel a prat.”

“Why?”

“Well, you’re supposed to stop falling over when you get the hang of walking. Not used to - Aaah.” The circulation was returning with a rush. He sat up and rubbed his tingling limbs, trying to speed the process. Doyle watched.

A minute later, Bodie was on his feet. He extended a hand. “Bed?”

In the bedroom, “Would you _like_ a fresh pair of pyjamas?”

A shake of the head.

“Well, I think I’ll change out of this. D’you want to take the bathroom first?”

No response.

“OK. I’ll just get ...” He found a newer, less-favoured tracksuit. Warm wear, even for winter, but he wanted to keep well covered up - it seemed less awkward.

But Doyle followed him into the bathroom.

“I’m going to get changed, Ray.” A warning.

Doyle nodded and stood just inside the door by the towel-rail.

Bodie raised his eyebrows and stripped quickly, putting the dirty clothes in the laundry basket. Tracksuit bottoms on first, and then the top. Although he turned away from the door to spare Doyle the worst, he knew that the other man was watching every move.

Doyle handed him a towel after he’d washed his face, and then stood close as he brushed his teeth.

“Your turn.”

Ray seemed so clumsy. It was painful to watch, remembering other nights. He really did move as if he’d been thoroughly beaten up.

* * * * *

Bodie led the way into the bed, getting in on Ray’s side (as he still called it, and probably always would), and sliding over to make room for him. This time he turned the lamp off.

They lay on their sides, holding one another loosely, Doyle’s head tucked under Bodie’s chin. Sleep was a remote possibility.

Some streets away, a church clock chimed two.

“Ray. I don’t think you should go to work on Saturday.”

Silence.

“Do you?”

Silence.

“Why don’t you come down with my ‘flu? I’ve got the weekend off anyway. I’ll come home with you. See you’re alright.”

An audible swallow. “Don’t want to go home.”

“We can’t stay here. What if your boss ‘phones? Like Cowley.” Pause. “What’s wrong with home?”

A deep sigh. “Cold.”

“It never used to be. Never mind. We’ll wrap up warm. I’ve got a hot water bottle somewhere.”

Doyle burrowed closer, pressing his face against Bodie’s neck. Bodie tightened his arms in return, and said nothing.

* * * * *

He was woken from a light sleep by a faint pressure on his lips. When he opened his eyes, it vanished, and Doyle’s shadowy face was wide-eyed on the pillow next to him.

“Do it again.” A whisper.

Salty fingertips traced his lower lip, which curved under them. He opened his mouth slowly, not sure if this was too much, and the fingers dipped in and met his tongue. His erection was doubtless misreading the situation, and he tried to tell it that. Ray needed contact, that was all.

Then Doyle’s face was moving closer, and the fingers slid up to grip his hair.

It was a totally innocent kiss. A sign of affection, nothing more, at least on Doyle’s part. Or so Bodie was forced to conclude from the unhurried breathing, the light, lapping movements, and the soft groin that rested against the top of his thigh. Nothing was going to happen.

But his erection wouldn’t subside. Ray _must_ be aware of it. He was ashamed of himself, ashamed that he couldn’t offer Ray simple affection in return. He arched his hips back, trying to stop himself prodding the other man, and Doyle broke the kiss.

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“My cock, it ... it doesn’t know when it’s not wanted.”

 “Why isn’t it wanted?” A simple question.

Bodie couldn’t help a snort of laughter. “Could be loads of reasons. I’m not the expert here.”

After a thoughtful pause, “You think I don’t like it.”

“It’s obvious.”

“No. What’ve I done? I didn’t mean to ...”

“Ray. You want ... to be held. A cuddle. I know that. But I’m used to ...” He swallowed. “I love you just as I always did, and sometimes ... I don’t want you to be upset by it. I won’t do anything, I promise.”

“It doesn’t upset me.”

“It must do. I know what it’s like when someone’s ... And you’re not interested. It’s hell.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Of course it is. You’re ... you’re not even breathing fast. I haven’t forgotten what you’re like when you’re turned on.”

A deep sigh. “I’m turned on ... in _here_.” A dull tapping sound. Doyle’s hand was a white blur in the darkness. “But it’s not getting through to anything else. It hasn’t for months. I like ... knowing that you want me, though. Don’t hide it. Come back here.”

With a groan, Bodie obeyed. Doyle pulled him closer with a hand on his buttock, and there was another, deeper groan.

“How close are you?”

“A way off.”

“What can I do?”

In reply, Bodie kissed him again. Despite what Doyle had said, he couldn’t show all that he felt - it wouldn’t be right. The kiss was as gentle as all the others. But this time he didn’t fight the effect it was having on the rest of his body.

“Let me touch you. Properly.”

With an effort, he stopped the movement of his hips, rolled away slightly, and lay gasping, understanding only that he couldn’t come yet.

“Please.” Doyle folded back the covers, and leant over him. Bodie could scarcely believe it when he felt the tugging at the waistband of his tracksuit bottoms. He raised his hips, and careful hands pulled the material over his cock and down his thighs.

At this, Doyle was not clumsy at all. He used one hand while Bodie held the other, and afterwards he lowered himself onto the sticky body, and held Bodie’s head while they kissed again.

“See? That didn’t upset me at all.”

* * * * *

“So it’s the last few months that’ve done this to you, is it?”

An unrecognisable sound in the darkness. Bodie hadn’t expected a reply, just wanted to get things started. He closed his eyes, and shifted his grip slightly on Doyle’s back, getting comfortable.

“Hhhh. Not really. Just got worse then.”

“How long’s it been going on then?”

“Oh.” A long pause. “Since I left you, I suppose.”

“But ... I thought you were going to be happy.” Puzzled.

“So did I. Content, anyway. Never seemed to get started on it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you really? I thought you’d be pleased. After I was so self-righteous about it all.”

“You weren’t. And you were right to leave, if that’s what you meant. And I _am_ sorry. I always imagined that you’d be settled down with a nice man with a regular job. Going clubbing every Saturday night. Having friends to dinner. Getting a full night’s sleep.”

“Didn’t work out.”

“What went wrong?”

Deep sigh. “I didn’t tell him I was a copper. He hated coppers. When he found out, he hit the roof.”

“Why didn’t you tell him?”

“Not sure now. I think I wanted to get away from the job for a while. See what it was like being a civilian.”

“You _are_ still in the force?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“How’s Ruth getting on? She your boss yet?”

“She resigned. Over a year ago. Don’t know what she’s doing now.”

“Why’d she resign? You said she was good.”

“She was. She liked the job. But she hated the force.”

“Well. She didn’t fit in, did she?”

“She could have done, if we’d let her. But we didn’t. She said the force can’t cope with people who are different, inside or out. She predicted the riots, more or less.”

“So you think she was right?”

A shrug, felt rather than seen.

“You must have missed her?”

Another shrug. “I was too pissed off with her at the time. Things ... changed after she asked about the two of us. Dunno if it was her fault or mine. But we hardly spoke after that. First I knew about her resigning was when it was announced at parade.”

“What were your next probationers like?”

“Kids. They fit in no trouble.”

“Mmm.” He couldn’t think what to ask next. It was all so different from what he’d been imagining for Ray. But he didn’t want him to fall silent again. “What was his name, the bloke who hated coppers?”

“Pete.”

“How’d you meet him?”

“At a pottery class. I told everyone there that I worked at your sports club out at St. Albans. Working shifts, I said.”

“How long were you together?”

“’bout four months. We weren’t really together - we were just fucking.”

Bodie swallowed. “Was there anyone else?”

“A one-night-stand. Pete set me up with him, would you believe?”

“Women?”

“No.”

“Just ... two men? In all that time. Doesn’t sound like you.”

A gust of breath across his face. “I lost the heart for it.”

“I see.”

“No. It wasn’t like that. Just ... couldn’t see the point. There’d be no one else like you, and ... Well, why bother?”

“So you did miss me?”

“Oh. All the time.”

“Why didn’t you ... get in touch? If things weren’t working out.”

“I ... I thought I’d done you enough harm. I didn’t have the right to put you through that again. And I knew things wouldn’t be any different however much we tried.”

“Mmm.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No. I understand. So what changed your mind?”

Silence.

Bodie gritted his teeth, cursing himself. Talk about something safe. _“Have you seen any good films recently?”_ No, maybe not. Well, perhaps it was time ...

“I did what you suggested, you know.”

A small, interrogative grunt.

“Went to the Incest Survivors’ Group. Still going, actually. ‘bout once a month. ‘n’ they put me onto a good shrink. See him every other week these days.”

Doyle’s mouth was gaping, deepest black.

“I wouldn’t have thought of it on my own. So ... thanks.”

A shuddering exhalation, and Doyle was wrapped tight around him, face buried against his neck, breathing quickly and unevenly. Bodie soothed him with his hands.

“I’m getting better, bit by bit.” It didn’t matter if Ray heard all of this, as long as he got the idea. “’s been slow. And I don’t think it’ll ever really be over. But ... I know I’m easier to deal with than I used to be. I’m not something you’d only wish on your worst enemy. I’m not frightened of things. Or only of the usual things. I wouldn’t throw a wobbly if you told me I was gay. I’d go clubbing and have fun. I still have nightmares sometimes, but I can talk about them now.”

Doyle’s grip had got tighter and tighter, and then he suddenly let go, and seized Bodie’s head instead, and kissed him with all the fierceness that had been missing earlier. He still wasn’t aroused, though, and Bodie felt only a distant heat, for which he was thankful - this was about things far more important than sex.

“Oh.” Gasping. “I love you. I love you. Bodie.” A deep breath, and he was laying claim to Bodie’s mouth again.

Gradually, Bodie calmed him, and felt the heartbeat slow, and the mouth become more gentle until eventually it lifted away with just a small, moist sound.

They were quiet for a while, holding one another, sharing breath.

“I wouldn’t have thought it would be possible.” A whisper.

“Me neither. I wouldn’t even have tried it, but I didn’t have much choice.”

“Why not?”

“I had a nervous breakdown.” An intake of breath from Doyle. “Well, you saw the beginning of it. I was completely out of it. After about a week they figured it out at work, took me off the streets while they decided what to do. Cowley threatened me with Ross - the pet shrink -“

“I remember.”

“- I was terrified of her. Begged him to let me sort it out myself. He gave me a fortnight. So ... I did what you’d suggested. Still had to see Ross after that but ... she’s not so bad.”

Silence again. A siren, far in the distance.

“So you see, I think if you wanted to try again, it might work out this time.”

“Why would you want me back?”

“Something to do with loving you to distraction, I think.”

“No. I was lousy to you. Never appreciated you. Held back all the time. Never made any effort to make you feel good. I was the worst thing that ever happened to you.”

“Hah. Not even close. I told you yesterday, that’s _not_ how I remember it.”

“ _Look_ , when we first met you were cool, confident, seemed like you could cope with anything. By the time I’d finished with you, you were crying in your sleep every night. I don’t know why you’d want to put yourself through that again.”

“It wouldn’t happen like that again. I’m nowhere near as mad as I was then. Yeah, I got pretty strange, but it had nothing to do with how you were treating me. Believe me, you couldn’t have done _anything_ to stop it. It was inevitable from the moment I fell in love with you. But the problem’s sorted out now.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Well, I’ll save the full story till some night when there’s nothing on telly, but ...” A sigh, and a pause while he gathered his thoughts. “You see, I’d sorted out this way of dealing with what happened to me when I was a kid, how it made me feel about myself. Basically, I pretended it hadn’t happened ... or not to _me_. Just to some pathetic little kid called William, who hated himself and knew that no one would ever love him.

“And William wasn’t _me_. I was _Bodie_ , tough, and hard, and ... a killer. Not frightened of anyone. Not that I liked myself very much, or expected anyone to love me. But I didn’t _care_. Not like William. He cared desperately. But he was hiding away somewhere, and he didn’t bother me.”

A deep breath, and a change of tone. “Bet you’re glad you didn’t know this at the time. You’d’ve run a mile.”

Softly, “You don’t have to tell me any more. If you think it’ll work this time round, that’s good enough for me.”

“Is that a yes?”

“I can’t remember the question, but yes.”

“Oh, Ray. Come here.”

* * * * *

“Will you tell me more about William sometime? I _do_ want to know. But I don’t think I can deal with it right now.”

“Just ask. I want to tell you, too. When you understand what you were up against, maybe you’ll stop browbeating yourself.”

A pause, then Doyle sighed impatiently. “I wish I could get it up. I want to celebrate properly. Bloody frustrating.”

“It’ll come back. I had the same thing myself when I had the breakdown. Lasted about six months. Was glad of it, most of the time.”

“Jesus! I hope you’re patient.”

“For you? Course. But I don’t think it’ll be that long. You’re feeling better already, aren’t you?”

“Feeling wonderful.”

“Well, your cock’ll catch up soon. Don’t worry about it.”

“And we’ve still got yours to play with. More than enough for two.”

“Ah. Flattery.” A swift kiss, then very seriously, “Ray, I still can’t take being fucked.”

“Have you tried?”

“No. But I don’t need to. I’m sorry. I should have told you before I-“

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It did before.”

“We’ve both changed since then. It’ll be different. Look, I fucked Pete ‘n’ ... Mark, and it was nothing special. Not worth risking ... you for. And I found out I preferred being fucked anyway. We’re a perfect match.”

“That might change.”

“It might. And then we’ll talk about it.”

“In the Group, they say I might never be able to. Not ever.”

“Then that’s what I’ll be expecting. Don’t worry about it. And I won’t worry about getting it up. Deal?”

* * * * *

They both fell asleep shortly afterwards, woke when the post arrived, then slept again.

“Coffee?” Doyle yawned widely, displaying his tonsils to the world.

“Mmm. Rather have a shower first. And a shave.”

“I’ll join you.”

Bodie went through to the kitchen to turn the heating on, and when he reached the bathroom, Doyle was already naked, and testing the temperature of the jets of water.

“God, you’re thin.”

“And you’ve got too many clothes on.”

The glide of soapy skin on soapy skin had the obvious effect on Bodie, though none at all on Doyle. Still, Doyle behaved as if there was no difference, watching Bodie’s response to the kissing and licking and pinching with as much pleasure as he would have two years before. He knelt as eagerly, and rose afterwards licking his lips through a contented smile.

* * * * *

“Don’t put those on again. Borrow some of mine. Or I’ve still got stuff you left here.” Doyle’s clothes had been lying on the floor of Bodie’s bedroom for over a day.

“Where?”

Bodie opened the wardrobe, and came out with a pair of jeans and then a jumper and some T-shirts.

“I’d forgotten about these.” Bodie thought that Doyle’s delight seemed excessive. Ray had never seemed that bothered about his clothes before.

After breakfast they took their second coffees to the settee. The stereo was still switched on, and Bodie turned the record over before sitting down.

“What d’you want to do today?”

“Talk. Catch up. ‘s been so long.”

A nod. “D’you want anything special for lunch? Or supper? I haven’t got much in. Have to nip out.”

Doyle swallowed. “What’s wrong with your scrambled eggs? ‘n’ Jaffa Cakes. Don’t need anything else.”

“ _You_ mightn’t. What’s bothering you, Ray? Is it _eating_?”

An uneven breath and a shake of the head. “Going out.”

“Just to Marks and Sparks to get a lasagna or something. I won’t be long.”

A more vigorous shake. “Don’t leave me.”

“Come with me then.”

Doyle frowned and kept on shaking his head, getting even more upset. Bodie put an arm around him and a hand on his knee.

“What’s wrong, love?”

“People. I can’t - I just want to stay in here with you.”

“OK. Look, come to the kitchen and see what we’ve got.” It wasn’t much. “I usually just eat in the canteen. And I was going to go shopping tomorrow.”

“I don’t want you to go.”

“I know.” A long sigh. “I’m trying to think of someone I could ‘phone. Now, what would I do if I _really_ had ‘flu?”

Doyle held onto him, tense, waiting.

“Mmm.” Slowly. “Dan. If I can catch him before he goes to lunch.”

“Who’s Dan?”

“From the Group. He’s given me a lot of help one way and another. Let’s get his number.” He steered Doyle to the bedroom and fetched a battered book from the shelf to the left of the doors. “B. B. Ah.” He sat on his own side of the bed, by the ‘phones, and drew Doyle down to sit next to him. “Is it OK if I give him some idea what’s going on? I’m ruining his lunch-hour - doesn’t seem fair to lie. He knows who you are, knows ... how important you are to me. You won’t have to meet him.”

Very quietly, “OK.”

Bodie squeezed his shoulder, then released him to dial two-handed. When he was finished, he put his arm around Doyle again.

“Can I speak to Dan Buchanan, please?” Pause. “William Bodie.” Longer pause. “Hi. Dan. OK. Look, I’ve got a big favour to ask you. I really need to get some food in, but I can’t leave the flat.” Pause. “No. Not quite. It’s Ray.” Pause. “Yes. Wednesday night. Well, he’s a bit under the weather, and I don’t want to leave him. You know I wouldn’t ask unless -“ Brief pause. “Thanks. OK. You’ve got a pen?” Bodie then reeled off a long shopping list composed largely with the aim of covering Doyle’s bones. “You alright for cash? Great. See you.”

He put the ‘phone down. “He’ll be round in an hour or so.”

They returned to the settee, and Doyle remained subdued for some time, though he eventually relaxed under Bodie’s soothing hands. Bodie didn’t attempt to question him about “people”. It was obvious that there was no point in pushing.

* * * * *

The entryphone buzzed. Bodie went to answer it.

“I’ll close the door, Ray. While he’s here.” He shut the hallway off from the living room, then fetched his wallet from the bedroom. He was propping the front door open with his foot when Dan arrived with two bulging Marks and Spencers carrier bags.

“There. We’re set for the rest of the winter now.”

Doyle rose to meet him and took one of the bags. They unpacked them together, then Bodie checked the instructions on a lasagna, and put the oven on to heat up.

“How about some wine?”

* * * * *

Doyle rested the glass on his knee, and rolled the stem between his thumb and forefinger, watching it intently. “You must think it’s pathetic, the way I’m acting.”

“Ray, nothing about you could ever be pathetic. If something bothers you, I take it seriously, even if I don’t understand what’s going on.”

Doyle turned to meet his eye. “Christ knows what I’ve ever done to deserve you.”

Raised eyebrows. “Any number of things. I could make you a list.”

“No.” Pause. “Bodie? Why didn’t _you_ get in touch? When you knew you were better. That ... we had a chance.”

An easy question. “I always imagined you ... happy. Like I said. With a nice man. And your friends around you. I had no right to ... push my way back into your life. I didn’t think I had much to offer you even after I’d got myself sorted out.” Doyle was nodding. Prodded by curiosity, Bodie asked, “How did _you_ imagine _me_?”

A mistake. Doyle closed his eyes and screwed his face up, breathing harshly. Blindly, he slid his glass onto the coffee table.

“Shh. It’s OK, Ray. Never mind.”

“Dead.” Spat out. Then he jerked round, eyes wild. “I always imagined you dead.”

Bodie reached for him. For several seconds Doyle fought him off, scything the hands away, then he gave out a cry that sounded nine parts rage, and threw himself into the waiting arms, sobbing as if his lungs were tearing themselves free of his chest.

The tears continued for a long time, until Doyle was simply exhausted. Bodie found himself wondering vaguely about the neighbours - but surely they’d all be out at work.

When Doyle was quiet enough to hear him: “I wasn’t though. I’m not.”

Raggedly, “I knew that. Once I thought ... And I watched outside here for a week for you, but ... So I went to the cemetery. At West Norwood. But you weren’t there. So I knew.”

“How? Dead?” He couldn’t help asking. Might it be a warning, a prophecy?

“In the desert. From the snake-bite. I’d gone to get water, and when I got back ... I didn’t even realise at first. I couldn’t ... You were all alone.” Shuddering breaths. “It was a dream. I had it so many times.”

“ _Only_ a dream. It’s over now. Isn’t it?”

A nod against his chest.

“When did you watch for me? That week?”

“Um. August. Beginning of August.”

“I was in Scotland. On holiday.”

Pause. “Good holiday?”

“Hot. Got really burnt. Those sea breezes make you think it’s much cooler than it really is. Food was good. We should go there sometime.”

“Yeah.”

Silence then, while Doyle’s breathing gradually returned to normal.

“Think that oven should be hot enough by now.”

“Oh, no.” Bodie made a show of glancing at his watch. “Give it a few more minutes.” They laughed, and soon Doyle let Bodie up to see to the lasagna.

* * * * *

Much later, after they’d finished the wine, Doyle looked up, frowning slightly. “Bodie? You know what you said about going on holiday? To Scotland. What about Internal Security and double beds and everything? I mean, before, we decided ...”

“Yeah, I know. Well, I’m not going to let IS run my life for me. I’m not going to behave as if I’m ashamed of what I am. Of us.”

“But what if they find out?”

“Then I lose my job. No big deal.”

“But you love CI5.”

“No. I love _you_. There are other jobs. I’ve got savings. We’ll be fine.”

“So ... no women?”

“Nope.”

Doyle stretched his head back, smiling blissfully. “God. This seems too good to be true.”

Bodie ruffled his hair. “Not that I’m planning on doing anything outrageous. But I’m not going to let them stop me doing what I want - which is to be with you, as much as possible.”

“Yes. Why now, though? And not then?”

“It’s part of me sorting myself out. Back then, I thought CI5 was the best I could ever hope for. And I thought I’d got in by accident, because they hadn’t figured out what I was really like. And I thought no one else would want me. Bit like how I felt about you. It wasn’t just a job, it was ... a chance at being human. And if I messed it up ...

“Anyway, I’m over that now. I’m ready to face the job market.”

“You’re going to leave?”

“In a year or so, I thought. No rush. Though in the meantime I’m gonna ask to be moved to the B Squad.”

“The B Squad? But that’s for married men, and ...”

“But that’s what I am. Aren’t I?”

“You’re never going to tell that to Cowley.”

“No. I’ll tell him I’ve been having these crazy dreams about seeing thirty. He’ll understand.”

“He’ll know you’re going to leave.”

A shrug. “Everyone has to. Someday.”

“Were you thinking about this before ... before I came back?”

“On and off. Now there’s no question about it.”

Doyle leaned against him, totally relaxed. “You know, we really _are_ going to make a go of it.”

“Yes.”

“Ah. If only we could live together. That would be the last thing.”

“Well, that’ll be easy once I’m out of the Squad. But I’ve been thinking about that, too. Why don’t we buy somewhere together?”

“But ...”

“I’m pushing you.” Apologetically.

“No. It would be brilliant. But ... it’s a give-away. IS’s eyes’ll light up.”

“Not with London property the way it’s going. Look. We’re two blokes making decent money but not great. Not looking to get married ... just yet. Don’t want to rent all our lives. Decided to pool our cash and find somewhere better than we could get separate. Two bed - at least. Makes sense.”

“Has it happened before?”

“Few years ago. Klein and Cookson. They’re still with the Squad.”

“Bet they’ve got girlfriends, though.”

“You don’t want to do it.”

“I _do_ , but ... Can we afford it, anyway?”

“Well, let’s see how much cash we’ve got. See what’s on the market. Think about it a while. Even if we _don’t_ do it, won’t be so bad. I was practically living at your place before. We’ll just do that again.” He felt Doyle tense at the mention of his flat. “We’ll be fine.”

“Yes.” Pause. “Have you still got my keys?”

“No. I didn’t want the temptation. Felt like ... I was holding something over you, too. Didn’t like it.”

“You kept my clothes.”

“Not the same.”

“No.”

* * * * *

At around four, Bodie looked at his watch and said, “Ray? Maybe you’d better ‘phone in sick now. More convincing if you realise the day before, especially when you’re on earlies. Also means that if they _do_ call you, they’ll probably leave it till nine or ten - give us more time to get over there.”

Doyle didn’t have to think hard about it. “Yeah. OK.”

It was done.

* * * * *

The rest of the afternoon and evening passed in easy conversation and comfortable silences. They went to bed around eleven.

This time there was no need for pyjamas or tracksuit. They were going to bed, as lovers, for the first time in a year and a half.

Doyle put a hand on Bodie’s shoulder, stilling him, and shook his head. “You’re wasting your time. Nothing’s working still. I’m sorry.”

“Who says it’s a waste? I want to touch you. Don’t you like it?”

“Yes, but ...”

“Then please let me.”

Doyle lay back, and just watched the progress of the dark head and the gentle hands, shifting occasionally as they seemed to prompt him, and sighing at his own good fortune.

Bodie made his way slowly downwards, and came to kneel between Doyle’s raised legs. He stroked the soft inside of his thighs, over and over, as Doyle half-closed his eyes, and turned his head to the side, making a long line of his throat.

“Oh. That’s beautiful.”

_He should be purring._ Bodie had thought that only cats showed such luxurious pleasure without the haze of sex. They’d never taken the time for this before.

Then he bent forward, and took Doyle’s soft cock in his mouth, not to arouse, just to tend, to hold. A small, helpless sound from Ray, then hands settled on his head, maybe to stop him at first, but not even trying.

When he drew away, it was with great care, lowering the precious organ from his tongue onto the contours of Doyle’s body. It was glistening from his mouth, and he bent again to press his lips to the head, and then along the length.

Doyle’s hand on his shoulder again. “Kiss me. Let me hold you.”

He obeyed.

“I didn’t know anyone could be as sweet as you. You keep on giving me things, over and over. You make me feel ...”

“Loved? I hope.”

“Oh, that’s just the start of it. But I don’t -“

“You _do_ , whatever you were going to say.”

“I don’t see how. I mean, what have I ever given you, done for you?”

“Like I said, I could make you a list. Well, there was your letter, for a start. The one you sent after you left. What’s wrong? I’ve said something wrong again.”

“But ... you must have hated the letter. It was so smug. So callous. You saw right through it, didn’t you? That’s why you wrote back like that.”

“I wrote back? When?”

Doyle told him.

“Ah. I thought I must have - couldn’t really remember afterwards. You see, you told me to let you know I was alright. So I did. I was _out_ of it, remember. Didn’t take in the rest of it until weeks later. Now I must have read it ... hundreds of times.

“And it’s _not_ callous. It’s not smug. It’s beautiful. And it helped me. When I was ... putting William Bodie back together again. Well, it was hard work, and sometimes I’d wonder if it was worth the effort. And I’d get your letter out, and know that you loved me, and ... yes, it _was_ worth it.

“Look, I don’t know why you insist on believing the worst about yourself. It’s the only thing about you I’d want to change. One day, we’ll sit down and go through it line by line, and you’ll realise how much you’ve given me.”

“Fuck me.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“No. You know it’d be a mistake right now.” For a moment Bodie thought Ray was going to sulk, but instead he sighed, and slid his hands further up his lover’s back.

“I want you ... inside my skin. All around me. Looking after every cell of my body. That’s what it feels like when you fuck me, you see.” Not seductive, just explaining. “That’s what I wanted.”

“I can’t do it, Ray. Not unless I can make you come. Maybe that’s not important to you. But it is to me. Because of ... my father. I ... _can’t_ do that to someone else. Even if he’s begging for it. I’m sorry.”

“No. I should have thought.”

They kissed, long and deep.

“What you were just talking about ... Can I make you feel like that any other way?”

“You already do. I was just being greedy.”

“What would you like?”

“Oh.” Thinking. “Can we make you come? Together.”

“Show me.”

“Lie back. Oh, you’re so strong. Look better than ever. Want a photograph of you, you know. T’keep in my wallet. No, not like this, though I wouldn’t mind that either. Oh. Love.” There was no more talking for a while.

“Can I put my fingers in you?”

“Uh.” It was meant as a yes.

Doyle leaned over to open the drawer in the bedside table. Bodie put out a hand to stop him.

“Nothing there.”

“Threw it away?”

“Uh. Use spit.”

Doyle put his middle and index fingers in his mouth, and wet them thoroughly. When he withdrew them, Bodie raised his knees to his chest, and held his cheeks apart, waiting. Then he groaned. “Oh. More. Don’t - Oh.”

When the fingers were in deep, they stilled, and Doyle lifted Bodie’s left hand. “Touch yourself.”

Bodie raised the knee to make room for his arm, and stroked himself firmly but slowly, while Doyle watched, twisting and sliding the fingers in tiny movements that felt huge. Then he grasped Bodie’s balls in his free hand. “Your nipples. Touch your nipples.”

They took it as slowly as they could, not breaking the gaze until the last few, noisy seconds. Then Doyle leaned forward, fingers still inserted, and licked the drops from belly and chest and motionless hand.

“We made love.” Doyle sounded as stunned as Bodie felt. “It didn’t make any difference. It was wonderful. Oh, God. I don’t care if it _is_ six months.”

* * * * *

In the morning, Doyle’s euphoria had vanished. His palpable depression affected Bodie too, so that the shower was just a means of getting clean.

“You _really_ don’t want to go home.”

“No.” Pause. “But you’re right. We have to go.”

“Have you got much food in?”

A shake of the head, eyes averted.

“I’ll take a bag, then.”

Bodie drove them. It was a tedious journey through the morning rush-hour. Doyle sat hunched in his jacket, eyes closed. Bodie watched him when he could, but knew - from his experiences over the past two days - that a moving car was not the place to try and help Ray.

Outside the front door, Doyle took a brown envelope from the pocket of his jacket, unfolded it, and withdrew his keys from it. He opened the door.

“God, it _is_ cold, isn’t it? You should get onto your landlord, get the heating seen to.”

The living room door was the only one open off the hallway. Doyle led the way, then stood just in front of the settee, facing the window, head bowed.

“What happened to -“ The room was empty of every possession of Doyle’s that he might have recognised. He turned round, scanning. There were two envelopes on the table to the left of the door, neatly arranged. On the floor by the window, half-hidden by Doyle’s legs: a small aluminium case, something like a looked like a luggage tag, and some lengths of twine. Doyle would not look at him.

He turned back to the table. The topmost envelope was labelled simply “The Note”. He picked it up. The other was “The Will”. Neither was sealed.

He lifted the flap of the first envelope, and drew out the single sheet of paper. It was dated the 17th of February 1982 - the Wednesday.

> If you are reading this, you know that I have killed myself. My body should be found in the Thames soon, if it hasn’t already been washed up.
> 
> My will is in the other envelope. There is nothing of mine remaining in this flat and nothing to be disposed of except the contents of my bank accounts. My uniform is the property of the police force and is in the first wardrobe in the bedroom.
> 
> Raymond Doyle

The note still in his hand, he turned and crossed the corridor to the bedroom. It was empty, bed stripped. He opened all of the wardrobe doors, finding nothing except Doyle’s uniform, hanging neatly, as clean as if it had never been worn.

In the living room, Doyle had not moved. Bodie knelt by the window and opened the small case, then shut it again immediately. The luggage tag was a white card, covered in plastic, with two addresses, written in Doyle’s hand: the flat on one side; the police station on the other. There was a hole punched in the plastic near the edge.

He stood up, and turned around. “What were you going to do?”

“Go down to the river in the middle of the night. Wade out. Try to blow my brains out. I knew I’d drown anyway if I didn’t make it first time round.” Perfectly even.

“ _Why_?”

A shrug.

“When?”

“’bout three Thursday morning.”

“But -“ He closed his mouth after a few seconds, turned to look at the envelopes, then at the items on the floor. “You won’t do it now, will you? Not any more?”

Finally, Doyle looked up. “Shouldn’t think so.” He tried to smile. It wasn’t convincing.

“I need a drink.” Urgent.

“There’s nothing here. Absolutely nothing.”

“Let’s get out of here. Please.”

Doyle nodded, then led the way out again.

In the car park, Doyle waited by the passenger door, studying his feet, waiting for Bodie to let him in.

There was the sound of metal on metal, then a long pause, then a dull thud. He raised his head, faintly puzzled. Bodie was nowhere to be seen.

“Bodie?” Pause. “Bodie!”

He was flat on his back, his feet just under the door, his face paper-white - out cold. Doyle knelt by his head and checked the pulse. Strong and regular. He shrugged out of his jacket, folded it up, and put it into service as a pillow. Recovery position: left hand tucked under his hip; right arm folded across his chest; right knee raised. And pull. The large body rolled over easily.

Doyle stroked Bodie’s hair and waited. _Poor sod. Reaction times of a glacier, though. Wonder if that’s typical for CI5._

The eyelashes fluttered. A weak grunt. He looked completely dazed.

“It’s OK, Bodie. Everything’s OK. Don’t try to move yet. How’d’you feel?” Wiping away the chill sweat around the hairline.

“Sick.”

“Lie still. It’ll pass.”

Bodie fumbled for Doyle’s hand. Over the next few minutes, the colour gradually returned to his face.

“Is everything alright? Is there anything I can do?” A concerned voice behind Doyle. It was one of his neighbours, a short-haired, capable-looking woman whose name he didn’t know.

“All under control, thanks.” _Move along. There’s nothing to see._

She hovered for a couple of seconds, then went back indoors.

Bodie rolled onto his back and ran a hand through his hair, breathing noisily. “God. Haven’t done _that_ in a while.”

“How’s your head? You went down like someone had hit you with a cow.”

Tentative probing. “Seems OK. Probably come up in a few hours.” He sat up very slowly. “Euh.” Doyle helped him to his feet, and then picked up his jacket while Bodie was leaning against the car roof.

“No, you don’t.” Bodie had been reaching for the keys, which were still in the lock. “ _I’ll_ drive. You lie down in the back.” He opened the door, and held the seat up, and Bodie did as he was told.

“Careful getting up. You still look shaky. Now take it slowly. These the keys?”

Once inside the flat, Doyle steered him to the settee. “Now sit quiet. I’ll make you some tea.”

“Rather have a brandy.”

“Not yet. Behave yourself.”

A few minutes later, Bodie pulled a face. “You know I don’t take sugar.”

“Tough. It’s good for you.”

A grin. “God, you’re bossy.”

“’s what I do for a living. ‘n’ you like it.”

“Must do. C’mere.”

* * * * *

Over a large, shared brandy: “Why, Ray?” The tone of voice made a longer question unnecessary.

A deep, deep sigh. “It’s a long story.”

“We’ve got all day. All week. Whatever it takes.”

“I don’t know where to start.”

“Tell me everything that’s happened since I threw you out of here eighteen months ago.”

“Well, I went home and at first ...” It was indeed a long story, made longer by Bodie’s questions and exclamations. It continued over steak and kidney pie, and crumble, and coffee and more brandy, and was still going when Bodie got up to turn the lights on.

“So it was like you felt when the dog died? Hating people?”

“Yeah. But much, much worse. ‘cos I felt I was part of it. That I’d done ... oh ... _terrible_ things to you. Taken everything you had left to give, and just thrown it away. And there was just so much hate around. So much evil. It only made sense if there was ... something watching, feeding off it, enjoying it. I really thought I’d ... seen the face of God. I’m not sure yet that I was wrong.”

“You were having a breakdown, you know.”

“Probably. It all made perfect sense, though. Still does.”

“You said you wouldn’t do it.” A trace of panic.

“I won’t. Even if I _was_ right, and God _is_ like that. It doesn’t matter. Not to me. Because _you’re_ alright. And that’s all I care about. Don’t give a fuck about the rest of the world. _You’re_ my god.”

Bodie swallowed.

“Don’t look so frightened. You feel the same way about me, don’t you?”

“Yes. Always have.”

“Well, then. And don’t worry about me. I know I’m still close to the edge at the moment, but I’m on my way back. It’s going to be OK.”

They clung to one another for long moments. Bodie was the one who raised his head. “What happened then, in December, after you’d decided?”

“Oh, I just started ... easing myself out of life. Shutting myself down. I wanted to ... slip out of sight, as if I’d never existed. That’s why I got rid of all my things.

“It was a wonderful feeling, actually. Totally free. Totally in control. Nothing could touch me any more. I was smiling all the time. Woods probably thought I was trying to be friends.”

“Jesus!” Bodie couldn’t help being frightened, even though he hid it better this time. Ray obviously still felt the pull, talking about it so calmly, almost wistfully. “What ... stopped you, then?”

“Oh. I was waiting. Waiting for it to get late enough that there’d be no one around. And ... I suddenly ... _knew_ that something had happened to you. Like when I had the dreams. And ... I had to find out. Before -

“So I ‘phoned. And when I heard your voice ... I _had_ to hear it again. And then ... I _had_ to see you. It was like ... being dragged back by the scruff of my neck. I wish I could say it was ... a decision, but I wasn’t ... _thinking_ anywhere near enough for that.”

* * * * *

“Ray? I think you ought to leave the force.” Tentative.

“I think you’re right.”

“Don’t worry about money. Like I said, I’ve got savings. We’ll be fine.”

“I know. I’ll hand in my notice as soon as I go back.”

“Monday?”

“Yeah. We’ll go back together.”

“I’ll see the Cow about moving to B Squad. How much notice is it? Three months?”

“Just a month. Not too bad.”

It was a very cold night. They were lying on the carpet in front of the electric fire, half-full glasses of red wine within reach. Doyle was curled around Bodie, his head resting on the broad chest.

“Any thoughts about what you might do?”

“Anything where there’s no people. I’ll be happy never to talk to anyone but you.”

“You sure you’ll be OK going back on Monday?”

“Yeah, I’ll make it. ‘s just for a month. Just for a few hours a day. And I’ve got you to come home to.”

“Talking about home ... you can’t go back there the way it is at the moment. I won’t let you.”

“Now who’s being bossy? I can’t stay here.”

“We’ll move my stuff over there tomorrow. Start buying things. D’you think you’d be able to get any of your stuff back?”

“Dunno. All I really _want_ back is those glasses. Rest of it’s not important.”

“Can you remember what you did with them?”

“Yeah. I’ll go round Monday afternoon. See if they’ve still got ‘em.”

“If not, I’ll buy another set. Anyway, ‘s our anniversary in less than a month.”

“Our third. God. No, I’ll buy them. ‘s definitely my turn.”

* * * * *

When they got up, to start getting ready for bed, they found that it was snowing. With the lights off in the flat, the flakes showed clearly in the streetlight. They stood by the glass doors, looking out over the balcony, arms around one another.

“We could go for a walk in the park.”

“It’ll be shut.”

“No. Just to cars. They leave the gates on the pavement open all the time. Dan dragged me in once, this time last year. It was strange. A whole different side to London.”

“Sounds very romantic, but I think I’d rather be warm.”

Later, in bed, with the lights still off: “Tell me about Dan.”

“Well, he’s straight, for a start. A Survivor, of course. Pretty active in the Group. Does the switchboard at least one night a week. He was on duty the night I first called. I didn’t want to talk on the ‘phone, so he came all the way in to meet me in the park. He was the first person I ever told.”

“What does he look like?”

“Small. Thin. Red-head. Very Scottish-looking.”

“Where does he work? Where did you ‘phone him?”

“He’s an accountant. Works off Regent’s Street.”

A heavy sigh. “I’m jealous.”

“I know. There’s no need.”

“ _I_ wanted to be the one to help you. Cure you. Love you so much that you’d just turn around and tell me what the nightmares were all about. And then they’d stop of course.”

“It was never going to happen, Ray. I’m sorry.”

“I thought ... that night in Brija ... I meant - I thought it would be the beginning of the cure. Thought it _was_. But I was just making it worse. Course I was.”

“You knew ... _then_? All that time ago? But I thought it was the nightmares ... I thought I must have been talking in my sleep.” Bodie’s voice was full of dismay.

“Well, you were, sort of. You had nightmares when you were ill with the snake-bite. Well, hallucinations, really. I found out then. Found out what happened to Ginger, too. And then I -“

“So you knew _all_ the time? Right from the beginning? Oh, God. Oh, God.” Bodie had half-turned away, covering his face with his arms. He was breathing rapidly and unevenly.

“Bodie, don’t. Please.” Doyle was kneeling up, trying to pull him back, trying to bring the arms down. Suddenly they dropped, and Bodie arched his neck back, drew two deep, gasping breaths, then turned to meet Doyle’s eyes. He reached up and grasped a tense shoulder.

“It’s OK, Ray. But you see I’ve still got a way to go. I thought you only guessed ... towards the end. The idea of you knowing ... when I was sure you didn’t.” A ragged sigh. “It makes me feel very ... exposed.”

“Should I have told you straight away?”

“ _Christ_ , no!” _I’d have killed you. No second thoughts._

“And I always thought that it was sort of understood between us. I mean, I’d have figured it out from the other nightmares anyway.”

“God, what a pair. It meant a lot to you, didn’t it, the time with the snake-bite? If you were having your own nightmares about it.”

“It was when I started to fall in love with you.”

“But I was out of my mind and stinking to high heaven.”

“Well, I have strange tastes. No, it was ... taking care of you. Feeling I could _do_ something for you after all, when you’d been ... in charge all of the rest of the way. And when you had that nightmare ... well, you fought me at first, but then ... you trusted me, and I calmed you down and you fell asleep in my arms.

“And ... it was like I was holding myself. When I was six and my mother died and I was put straight into care and I just wanted someone to hold me and cry with me and take care of things and no one ever did. And I knew that you were like me, and that if I could ... cure you, make it so it didn’t matter any more, then that would make the whole world better. I belonged to you from then on, though I know you never asked for me.”

Bodie could feel the tears gathering along his collar-bone, cooling, then overflowing down his neck. “Oh, Ray. Oh, I’m sorry. I never knew. I’m sorry.”

A loud sniff. “Why should you know? I never said anything. And it’s over now. You _are_ better. Doesn’t matter that it wasn’t me who did it. And the world’s as good as I need it to be.”

* * * * *

“It was Brija that finally did it for me, you know. Handed me over to you, body and soul.”

“Why?” Whispered. “It gave you nightmares.”

“No. That wasn’t the way it worked. Even before then I knew you were ... special. Knew I didn’t want it to end when we got back to England.

“But I thought ... Hmm. ... you were like me. Screwed up, I mean. Because I raped you, and you ... came back for more. Now I didn’t think any less of you. Whatever ... had made you like that, it wasn’t your fault. I knew what it was like. And it was good to have found you, anyway.

“And then in Brija I found out I was wrong. You insisted on your rights, and you were good to me, too. And I realised ...” A sigh. “... that you were whole. Not like me. But you wanted me. _Whole_. And you wanted _me_.” His voice was rich with wonder. “It had never happened before. And I started to think ... that I might become human ... after all.”

* * * * *

“Why did it work, that time in Brija? And not since?”

Bodie understood immediately what “it” was. “I don’t know. God knows, I’ve thought about it often enough, hoping it was something simple that we could set up over here. But I think it was just ... that it had been _so_ long. I never let myself think about it, you see. About my father. And you were so kind. So careful. There was no comparison. So I didn’t make any.”

“If it was so good, why did you start having nightmares afterwards?”

“Because I was in love.”

“Love gives you nightmares?”

“It does me. Or _did_. Remember I was telling you about William? Well, it was William who fell in love with you. Bodie didn’t care about love or being human or any rubbish like that. And he wanted William dead - wanted the memories and the pain just to ... go away.

“But William started to come out of hiding, bringing his memories with him. And the nightmares started. And he was so ... ashamed of what he was. Frightened you’d find out. Because he knew that you’d want someone whole. Not like him. And meanwhile Bodie was having his say ...”

He breathed in deeply, and then let it out in a half-snort. “This Bodie and William stuff. I’m not saying I had a full-blown split-personality, whatever that is. It’s just ... how I thought about myself. A way of escaping. There are some people in the Group who did the same sort of thing. It’s supposed to be quite common.

“So, I wasn’t ... _quite_ as mad as this makes it sound. But still pretty mad. And it got worse as we got closer and closer and William came further and further out of hiding. It’s a miracle you stuck it for so long, really. I was dangerous.”

“No. I can’t believe that. You’d _never_ hurt me. You’re good, Bodie. Deep down good.”

_Huh. Tell that to Murph._ But Ray was never going to know about Murphy.

“Will you tell me ... the rest about William? All of it.”

“Now?”

“Only if you want to.”

“I do. But I’d like to get a drink first. Get comfortable. Decide where to start. You know.”

* * * * *

They were sitting up in bed, arms around one another, glasses of scotch resting on their thighs. Bodie had turned one of the bedside lights on. Outside, it was still snowing.

“Well, we’ve been talking about my father as if ... that’s what it was all about. And it wasn’t. It was my mother. No, well, it was both of them, but my mother’s the one I hate.

“I don’t know why they got married, why they stayed married for so long, any of that. But they didn’t get married because she was pregnant or anything. I think they must have been ... crazy about one another in a sick sort of way. They didn’t have any friends - none as a couple, hardly any separately. She was ... class. He was a docker’s son. Her family cut her off totally when she got married, and she wouldn’t make any effort to get on with _his_. But I suppose they got _something_ out of it all.

“Then I came along. And she wouldn’t have anything to do with me. Wouldn’t touch me unless there was someone else around and she had to make a show like everything was normal. Dad was the one who did everything for me. And Nan, at first, but _she_ didn’t like that.

“And I loved her. Kept on trying to make her ... see me. But nothing worked. I can’t remember when I stopped trying. “She talked all the time about Dad and me. How we were both the same - stupid, clumsy, ugly, vicious. Animals. We looked alike, I think. People were always commenting on it. She didn’t go on like that when he was around ... or not often. Sometimes he put up with it. Sometimes he didn’t. I think now she liked it best when he didn’t.

“Most of the time we banded together against her. Or that’s how it felt to me. We had secrets from her - about the times he took me to see Nan, about the treat we’d planned for my birthday. She always said that my birthday was nothing to celebrate.

“He never complained about her, though. Never even talked about what she did ... or what she didn’t do. And sometimes they’d ... go off together, and then _he_ didn’t see me either. So he wasn’t really mine. But he was the nearest I had. And I loved him even more when I stopped loving her.

“It was better when I started school, wasn’t home alone with her so much. I liked school. I tried hard, and Dad helped me sometimes, and the teachers paid attention to me and said I was doing well, and _she_ couldn’t _stop_ them.

“Then, when I was eight, going on nine, she started going away. For weekends. Sometimes longer. I liked it at first. I had Dad all to myself. But he didn’t want to play. Didn’t even stay in the house. But at least _she_ wasn’t there.

“I figured out - a fair bit later - that she was going off on dirty weekends. Maybe she tried to hide it from him at first. Maybe she didn’t.

“Anyway, I was just gone nine, and she was away on one of these things, and he came into my bedroom and he was very, very angry, and ... that was the first time. And he said it was a secret. A special secret. Not to tell her, not to tell Nan, not to tell anyone. And in the morning he was nice to me again. Took me to the park, bought me an ice-cream, made me laugh.

“It was about three months later that she went away again. But I hadn’t made the connection yet, wasn’t expecting anything. I knew, though, when he came to my room, what was going to happen. I begged ... but it didn’t do any good. After that, I knew it was ... like some sort of rule.”

“Of course, I didn’t tell her. I knew she wouldn’t care. And maybe she already knew. She’d shown sometimes that she knew about other secrets. And maybe this was what she’d been talking about all those years - all those things that Dad and me were. Maybe she was right. Maybe this was just what people like us _did_. No one would rescue me. After all, this was what I was for. Dad and me belonged together.

“I ... sort of gave up in school. I couldn’t see the point. I couldn’t concentrate. Maybe if I was a kid now someone might see the change and start thinking. But back then ... I’d just ... gone bad.

“I found Ginger. Looked after her myself. She was as independent as any cat, never let me cuddle her for very long. But she sure as hell wouldn’t stay still for anyone else. When she was in the right sort of mood I used to sit with her somewhere quiet - under the stairs, the space between my bed and the wall - and talk to her. Nonsense, I think, but she listened, and she purred. And it was _never_ then that she scratched me. _Always_ other times.

“I buried her myself. Dad found me a shoebox. Gave me an old shirt to line it with. But I wouldn’t let him come with me. When I got back from school the next day he’d got me a kitten. Black, she was, with little white feet. I couldn’t think what to call her, kept changing my mind every ten minutes. She was so small, just fit in my hands, and I could feel her heart beating so quickly - it shook her whole body. She was timid at first, but she went to sleep on my stomach, and I was so pleased, and Dad was happy too.

“But then _she_ came back, with her dogs. And the kitten was terrified of them. And I couldn’t stand to see it like that. So I asked Dad to take it back and he did. Just as well I hadn’t decided on a name.

“Anyway, she didn’t go away very often, maybe three or four times a year. I don’t know if it was the same man every time, but when I was eleven she left Dad for this man called Simon. The divorce didn’t take long. She got custody. Simon lived in Chester. Smart area. Much better than I was used to. He had a garden. They had two cars. Her family was speaking to her again - he was _their_ sort of man.

“Simon _tried_ to be friendly. Calling me Bill, taking us on day-trips, that sort of thing. But it didn’t win him any points with her, so he took the easy option and settled down to ignoring me. Mind you, I wasn’t easy to be friendly to at that time. Most people found it simpler to stay away from me.

“I was at a new school, and it was a ... _nice_ middle-class area, and I was labelled as a backward thug right from the start. I didn’t fight it. Why should I? I found the other thugs very quickly, and that’s when I started getting my _real_ education, the one that got me into CI5. _She_ enjoyed washing her hands of me, blaming it all on Dad, getting sympathy from Simon and her family and all her nice new friends. One day ... we were given our school reports to take home, and I knew mine was terrible, but still I had to give it to her. When I got home she was alone in the kitchen and I gave it to her and she threw it in the bin without looking at it, without looking at me.

“Dad would visit. Take me out for the day. They were the best days. The only good days. Every night I prayed that the two of them would get back together again. I knew she’d never love me. I didn’t ask for that. But I wanted a home that was _mine_. With someone who actually _thought_ about me, at least sometimes. I knew ... he’d do it to me again. But that didn’t matter. I loved him. And he was ... like me, and I didn’t know anyone else who was, and I wanted to be with him, whatever we had to do.

“He came on a visit and we went to the zoo and I asked him when mother and me would be going back to Liverpool to live with him and couldn’t he make it quicker, and he could do it to me whenever he wanted and I’d be very quiet and he wouldn’t even have to wait for when she was away. He didn’t say anything and he never came again. That was the last time I saw him. I didn’t know what I was being punished for.

“I was twelve by that time, and after that I was the only one who ever noticed my birthday. When I was thirteen, she got pregnant. I was excited about it. Because I knew there’d be someone else like me in the house. She’d ignore it, like she had me, and I’d take care of it and talk to it, and we’d be _together_ , against her. It’d know what I was and it wouldn’t hate me. It would understand that I couldn’t be any different. Because we were just the same.

“It was a boy. And she loved it from the start. She was like a different person. I watched the three of them together, and I knew that they were ... human, and I was something else.

“I ran away then. And that’s where William’s story ends, and Bodie takes over. By the time I jumped ship in Africa, I thought William was gone - curled up inside Bodie and died. But he was just asleep. You know what happened when he woke up again.”

Bodie took a very large mouthful of scotch, and tossed his head back, feeling it drop, fiery and cold, down his gullet. Doyle was utterly still, eyes closed, tear-tracks thin and shining on his face. It would be wrong to try to soothe him. He needed to recover at his own pace.

* * * * *

“I don’t know how you survived.” Almost more quiet than the sound of snow falling against the window.

“It just never occurred to me to do anything else. I’m not a great one for thinking about things.”

“You don’t still think you’re stupid? But you must -“

“No. No. My brain can move ideas around well enough. But it prefers them big and simple. I _have_ been compared to a bulldozer. I’m not a sports car, like you.”

Amused despite everything, “Well, I’ve had one too many crashes.” A pause. “I still don’t understand how you learnt to love the way you do. What you’ve done for me these past few days ... William should be ... so angry. Wanting to hit out, get his own back. He shouldn’t want to _give_ anyone else _anything_. But you’re ... always there for me. You put your arms around me and I feel calm and warm and safe, as if there’s no evil and pain in the world. But _that_ ’s almost all you’ve ever known. It shouldn’t be possible.”

“Well, if that’s how it is for you, I’m glad. But ... I just treat you the way I _feel_. I can’t be any other way. It’s not something I’ve ever thought about. I don’t think it’s anything special.”

“It is.” Pause. “Will you tell William that I love him? That I think he’s perfect - better than any human I’ve ever met. That I would’ve given anything to save him, give him the childhood he deserved. And will you thank Bodie for protecting him all those years?”

“Thank _you_. And you’ve just told them. They’re not separate any more, though they’re still getting used to the idea. You can even call me William if you like. Everyone in the Group does.”

“Um. I’ll try. But I think I’ll always yell ‘Bodie!’ when I’m coming.”

“Fine by me.”

* * * * *

“Do you ever think about going back? Finding your parents?”

“Sometimes. Not so much as I used to in the early days. I mean, when I was seeing the shrink several times a week. But I don’t know what I’d be finding them _for_. To say, ‘Look, I made it despite you.’? Or to try to understand them, even forgive, maybe? I think ... I shouldn’t even think about it as much as I do. They don’t deserve ... any more of ... _me_.”

Sigh. “You’re much smarter than I am, Bodie. William. I still think about finding _my_ dad. Not often, but ... still.”

“He’s alive? But I thought ...”

“Well, I don’t know. He left my mum and me when I was four. Gone back to Ireland, she always said. After she died, I kept hoping that he’d come back for me. But of course he never did. I’m glad. If things had been different, I wouldn’t have met you. And that’s the only thing that really matters.”

“What was your mum like?”

“I can’t really remember. Strong. In herself. Like you. She didn’t fall apart when he left. She must have been ... gutted, but she didn’t take it out on me, tried not to let it make any difference. She put me first. Like you.

“She left school at sixteen, went into an office as a typist. But she was mad keen on France. On French. It was her best subject at school and she kept on with it afterwards. She could read books. Without a dictionary. Her friends took the piss a bit, but she didn’t care.”

“How did she die?”

“Cancer. Hodgkin’s Disease, they said. ‘s a bit like leukaemia. It’s just everywhere, all through your body, can’t get it out. They can cure it now, sometimes, if they catch it early enough. But she just thought she was tired all of the time because of working and looking after me. Never went to the doctor until it was way too late.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I. You’d have liked each other, I think.”

“And then you went into care?”

“Yeah. Got shuttled around for about six months then ended up with the Arnolds and stayed there till I was sixteen.”

“Why didn’t they adopt you?”

“Dunno. Never asked. Didn’t seem important. They were nice people. Quiet. Very normal. He was a teacher. She didn’t work. I think they really wanted to have kids, but ...

“Well, I was the only one there for about five years, and then they started taking in others, just for short times. Sometimes there’d be four kids in the house. And me. I used to ... boss them about. Sort them out. Stop the fights. They should have waived the probationary period for me - I’d already been doing the work for years.

“And then ... well ... Mrs. Arnold got pregnant. Maybe they’d been going to a new clinic or something. I dunno. It was a girl. They kept me on, but stopped taking the others. I was fourteen.”

“They started neglecting you?”

“Oh, no. They were nice people. But ... I dunno, maybe they’d got me too old, or ... it was just _different_ because I wasn’t theirs. But they’d never been ... touchers, not with any of us. Just didn’t get close that way. But with Judy ... I realised what I’d been missing. That I _could_ have had that, that other people did. I know this sounds pathetic compared to what you went through -“

“No.”

“- but it was important at the time. I went a bit wild. The Arnolds were more embarrassed than angry, didn’t know what to do about me. Had to look as if things were under control ‘cos of him being a teacher at my school. They tried to be all cool, treat me like an adult. And that _wasn’t_ what I wanted.

“Eventually a local copper caught me shoplifting. He knew who I was - his boy was in my class at school. Think he had more idea of what was going on than the Arnolds did. So he just decided to give me a mild scare, and take me into the nick for a good talking to - not do anything else.

“I’d never been inside a nick before, and it was quite busy that day. And there were coppers bossing people around. Sorting them out.”

“Stopping fights.”

“You’ve got the idea. And ... I knew that was where I belonged. So I settled down, applied as soon as I possibly could, and joined the Met as a cadet. And it’s only ... yesterday, that I ever thought about leaving - and still being alive, that is.”

“Ah. I never really understood before why you wouldn’t join CI5.”

“It was more than a job. It was a family. But I’ve got a new one now.”

“Same here.”

Slowly, “You know. We really _were_ made for each other. We’re twins. Sort of.”

Bodie just gave an amused snort, and blew into his curls.

* * * * *

They rose late on Sunday. Bodie went out to get a Sunday paper, and Doyle waited quite calmly, happy enough to be left on his own, surrounded by Bodie’s possessions, knowing that Bodie would be back in a few minutes.

He glanced through the papers, but they made him feel anxious. All those people. All that pain. So he sat with his coffee, and watched Bodie read, and watched the last of the snow melting outside.

“What shall we take?”

Doyle shrugged. “Don’t really want anything.”

“How about the hi-fi?”

Another shrug. “OK.”

“Are you worried about going home?”

“No. Not really. Just ... not interested in ... _things_.”

“Well, we’ll need some ‘things’ to eat off and sleep under and wash with. Why don’t you go through each room and pick out the practical things, and I’ll choose the things that _I_ need around me to feel ... comfortable? I’ll get some boxes from the wardrobe.”

An hour later, the boxes were full. Bodie did a last check through cupboards and drawers and shelves, and then they started carrying the boxes down to the two cars.

“What if someone in CI5 saw you moving? What if someone finds out how empty your flat is?”

“Then it happens. It’s not likely though. I can’t remember the last time one of the lads visited the flat.” Actually, he could, but it had been Murphy.

* * * * *

“Let me get rid of this. Please, Ray.” Bodie was holding the aluminium case.

Doyle shook his head. “I’m not going to use it.” _Not while we’re still together_. “Or only for target shooting. Don’t worry.”

“I do worry. At least lock it away somewhere.”

“Alright.”

Doyle disposed of the other reminders of Wednesday night while Bodie started unpacking, setting up the hi-fi first, so they had a soundtrack for the rest of the work.

When they had finished, the living room was still far from cosy, but it was cluttered enough to reassure Bodie. They opened a bottle of wine, and sank down on the settee, pleasantly tired.

“You know,” said Doyle after a while, “I’ve been thinking. About what I’m going to do next. What d’you reckon to computers?”

“Frogger?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s not working with people. And I know I haven’t done much yet, but I’m sure I could learn. ‘s fun, too.”

“Sounds great. Where would you start, though?”

“Dunno. Maybe I’m too old, anyway.”

“Rubbish. ‘s there anyone you could ask about it? Get careers advice?”

“Well, the obvious person’s ... Ruth. But I dunno if she’d speak to me. And I dunno where she is. I had her number, but I threw it away.”

“Doesn’t she have a file at the station, or something? CI5 keeps that sort of stuff forever. I’m sure you could track her down. And I can’t believe that if you _did_ ‘phone her, she’d tell you to piss off. ‘specially if you were asking for help.”

“You’re a very effective bulldozer, you know. I’ll look for the file tomorrow.”


	23. Heat-Trace - Chapter 21

## Chapter 21

On Monday morning, Bodie got up with Doyle, although he was not due in work until more than an hour later. At the door, they kissed goodbye for a long time.

“Will you be alright?”

“I think so. What time’ll you be in tonight? And what d’you want to eat?”

“’bout half six, I hope. And anything would be great. Look, I’ll give you my number at work. If things get on top of you, call me and ... we’ll sort it out.”

“Would they put it through? I thought they were ...”

“Say you’ve got information. And you’ll only speak to me. Try and sound like a gun-runner. They won’t waste time then.”

“A gun-runner. Right. And I’ll get a set of keys cut for you. ‘s gonna be a busy day, all in all.”

* * * * *

In his lunch break, Doyle managed to see Chief Superintendent Keating, and to tender his resignation.

“I’ll get a letter to you tomorrow, sir. But can we say it’s effective from today?”

“Yes, but _why_ , Doyle? You’re ... the backbone of the Division.”

“I just ... stopped enjoying it, sir. I’ve been in the force half my life. That started to feel like a very long time.”

“You’ve got something else lined up, then?”

“No.”

They agreed that Doyle would tell Inspector Saxton himself, and after that it would be official - part of the local gossip. Doyle wasn’t bothered by the idea of the speculations. He wasn’t going to tell _anyone_ more than he’d told Keating, and nothing they said or thought could get close to him.

Before seeing Saxton, he went into Records and obtained two contact numbers for Ruth Garrett: one in London; and one in Edinburgh. He tried the London number, but there was no reply.

Saxton was as surprised as Keating, but he knew Doyle better, and argued harder. “Are you sure you’ve thought this through? Maybe you just need a change. What about a transfer? Put in for promotion? I can’t believe you’re going to throw away a career like yours.”

“I’m not throwing it away. The work I’ve done is still there. But I want to do something else with my future.”

* * * * *

It was a fairly easy day. Woods asked him about his ‘flu, surprisingly sympathetic over a ruined weekly leave. They didn’t argue about calls, and the ones they took involved scarcely a raised voice.

He didn’t tell Woods he’d just resigned, and no one else they met on the beat mentioned it, so he guessed Saxton was saving the news till parade on Tuesday morning.

The glasses had gone from the charity shop. He wondered how much they’d sold for - not three hundred pounds, that was for sure. Bond Street, Bodie had said, hadn’t he? He’d go on Friday, when he was on leave. And not have them as an anniversary present - more as a sign that the worst mistakes were over, and could be corrected. For the anniversary he’d get something else.

The bookshop still had his mother’s books, though. It was a woman behind the counter, not the man who’d taken them before, and there were none of the questions he’d been dreading. Who’s to say the man would have recognised him anyway?

* * * * *

Bodie had gone into HQ early. So had Cowley, and they had a short but interesting talk in Cowley’s office before the building started to fill up. Bodie didn’t mention Doyle, or buying a flat, and he wouldn’t until Ray had decided. Cowley was obviously curious, but didn’t try to dissuade him, or ask for more than the brief explanation. Few people ever felt able to question Bodie about his motivations.

Over generous gin and tonics, he and Doyle compared the reactions they’d each had to their announcements, enjoying their secret in a way they never had before.

At seven, Doyle glanced at his watch. “I’ll try Ruth again. She might be home by now. Though I doubt if she’s still living there these days. She made it sound like a very short-term thing, moving in with Cathy.”

He lifted the ‘phone onto the arm of the settee. Bodie handed him a biro.

The woman who answered the ‘phone was not Ruth.

“Hello. I’m trying to get in touch with Ruth Garrett. I wonder if you could tell me where she’s living these days.” Pause. “A friend of hers from the force.” Pause. “Yes, Ray Doyle.” Pause. “Oh, did she? Well, she was expecting it, you know.” Pause. “Yes, I was.” Pause. “Oh, Stoke Newington? Since when?” Pause. “Ah. OK, thanks.” He held the scrap of paper flat against his thigh, and held the pen over it. “Two Five Four.” Pause. “Seven Oh Five Oh. Great. Thanks.”

He turned to Bodie. “She was talking about me a lot during the riots, apparently. Thinking of getting in touch.”

“So she’ll probably be glad to hear from you. Go on.”

Another woman’s voice, again not Ruth’s.

“Hello. Can I speak to Ruth, please?” A long pause in which Doyle twitched his eyebrows optimistically at Bodie. “Hi, Ruth. It’s Ray Doyle.” A pause. “I know.” Pause. “Yes, I got your number from Cathy. She said.” Pause. “It’s OK. Look, the main reason I’m calling is ... uh ... I’ve resigned from the force, and -“ Pause. “Today. Yes, I know.” Pause. “Well, that’s what I want to speak to you about. I’m thinking of trying to get into computers, but I haven’t the first idea. Would you mind -“ Pause. “Well, we could meet in town, or I could cook you a meal.” Pause. “Hang on. I’ll have to check.”

He covered the mouthpiece. “Is it OK if she comes over on Wednesday?”

“Fine. I’m seeing my shrink in the evening, anyway. I’ll give her a lift home if she’s coming by tube.”

Into the ‘phone: “That’ll be fine. And Bodie says he’ll give you a lift home if you’re coming by tube.” A pause in which Doyle grinned widely. “Yes, well, we’ve got a lot to catch up on. I’ll see you round seven, then. Bye.”

“Didn’t sound as if she was too pissed off to me.”

Doyle shook his head, still smiling.

“You’re looking forward to seeing her, aren’t you?”

“Do you mind?”

“Course not.”

“You were jealous of her before, weren’t you?”

“I was jealous of pretty-well anyone you ever spoke to. I’m over that now. And you’ve been far too lonely. You need friends. Not just me.”

* * * * *

Over dinner, Bodie said, “D’you mind if I tell my shrink about you coming back? Why you came back. What we’ve been talking about.”

“No, that’s OK. Will he be pleased?”

“Dunno if he’d tell me if he was. He’ll just ask me if _I_ ’m pleased. What I think’s going to happen. How I feel about you now. Stuff _we_ ’ve already been over.”

“What did Dan say when he brought the food over?”

“Said it was the first time he’d seen me really happy, and he wished me luck.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“You going to tell the Group about me too? When’s the next meeting?”

“A week Sunday. Only if you say I can.”

“Um. Can I think about it? I’m just ... not sure about them _knowing_. Seems different from a shrink. I mean, I’ll never meet _him_. But Dan’s a friend of yours, isn’t he?”

“’s OK. I won’t say anything. I’ll just say that you’re back and you’re wonderful. That’ll be enough.”

* * * * *

Later: “I’m on leave on Friday, you know.”

“You say that as if you have plans.”

Doyle gave a mock-grimace. “Clubbing. You’ve got the weekend off, haven’t you? I’m not working till three on Saturday. We could have a late night.”

“OK.”

Doyle’s eyes widened fractionally.

“You weren’t expecting that, were you?”

“Expecting a bit of a fight. Just for old times’ sake.”

“Who needs old times?” Bodie initiated a kiss, which ended some time later with Bodie on his back on the settee, Doyle draped on top of him - not comfortable, but fun.

“You know,” Doyle said thoughtfully, “one of these days we _will_ have a fight. I mean, at the moment I can’t imagine us ever finding _anything_ to disagree about. But we’re resourceful - we’ll manage it.”

“And we’ll get over it. Until the next one. And then we’ll get over that. And none of them will mean that we’ll be better apart.”

“No.”

* * * * *

Tuesday was not so good for Doyle. Saxton had made the announcement at parade, and it seemed to be the only talking point for the whole relief. Doyle realised he’d made a mistake in not telling Woods straight away - there were some minor skirmishes of wills during the morning. In the canteen he was bombarded with questions. None of them was awkward, but it was difficult not to seem evasive and thus prompt further speculation and questions.

When he got home, he was exhausted, feeling the demands of the human race as a terrible burden. Bodie was the only one who could relieve him of that burden, and Bodie wasn’t due home for another three hours at least. He made himself a mug of tea, then sat down on the settee, trying to think of something to do.

Cook? Bodie’d said something about going to the local Chinese. Read? Listen to music? With the tea only half-finished, he curled up on the settee, his back to the room, and tried to cut out the world until Bodie got home.

Bodie let himself in quietly and found Doyle asleep. As he knelt down, he wondered how long it would be before the apprehension would stop, before he could come home _expecting_ Ray to be alright.

* * * * *

Wednesday was better. The questions had eased off, and afterwards he was kept busy getting ready for Ruth. He’d decided on chilli con carne, since Ruth would want something that went with red wine, and he started it good and early, and got in all his secret ingredients.

She arrived slightly after seven, briefcase in one hand, bottle of wine in the other. He felt as if he’d never seen her in civvies before, or only in jeans and sweatshirt, which was just another uniform. Under a thick black wool coat, she was wearing tailored black trousers, and a shirt with bold splashes of colour on a black background, which reminded him of the Kandinsky painting, now in his bedroom.

“You look great. I was half-expecting to see you in a suit.”

“What, with a high-necked blouse with a big floppy bow? They tried, but I fought back.”

“The blouses or your bosses? Where’d you come from this evening?” They had moved into the living room, and Doyle was opening the wine.

“The Strand.”

“And what are you doing.”

“I’m in management consultancy.”

“Oh. _Not_ computers.”

“You kidding? Seems that’s all businesses _do_ these days. Dunno where the management comes in. I spend my time recommending computer systems for people, getting them running, organising the training. Or as much as they’ll let me - I’m still a new girl.”

“D’you like it?”

“Yeah. The work’s great. The company’s a bit too big, though. Impersonal. And they take everything so _seriously_. But the training’s good. Once I’ve really found my feet I’ll start looking for somewhere smaller.”

“How’s Stoke Newington?”

“Fine except there’s no tube station. But if there were I probably couldn’t afford to live there. The lift will be _very_ welcome. Where is Bodie, by the way?” Looking round, as if he might have been hiding behind the door.

“Still at work. He’ll be back around nine, he said.”

“His flat being decorated again?” A completely straight face. Almost.

Doyle smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Same as it was last time.”

“What? So he’s been here ever since?”

Turning serious, “Not quite. We split up the day after you asked about us. Only got back together a week ago. But he _is_ living here now. That’s his hi-fi.” It was playing one of Doyle’s old tapes. “You never believed a word of what I said before, did you?”

“Nope.”

“You must have despised me for lying.”

“God, no! Didn’t blame you at all. I shouldn’t have asked. It wasn’t fair. But I was feeling ... like an outsider in the force - which of course I was - and I wanted to talk to another outsider. I was ... disappointed, but not in you.”

“I _might_ have told you. Earlier. But we were heading for the rocks then. Didn’t seem worth it.”

She was waving a hand. “You don’t have to explain. I shouldn’t have asked. But I _am_ glad to find I was right. And that you’re back together. And very happy about it, by the looks of things.”

“Sickeningly happy. You’ll have to excuse us. We’re still in ... honeymoon mood. And you’ll be the first person who’s had to watch. We’re not used to it.”

“As long as you don’t go in for baby-talk, I shall feel honoured.”

* * * * *

Ruth was on her second bowl of chilli when she said, “So why’ve you resigned? I thought you were practically married to the force.”

“Well, in the last year or so I just got totally fed up with _people_. Brixton had a lot to do with it. I spent three hours behind a riot shield, men burning and dropping all round me, sure that that mob meant to _kill_ us. And _no one_ seemed to understand what it had been like. And the talk in the canteen ... “ He shook his head. “You would have exploded. And civilians weren’t giving us the support I’d have expected ... seeing what we’d _done_ for them. _I_ knew people who’d held Riot Parties - gathered round the TV cheering every time some poor copper went up in flames.”

“Me too,” she said quietly. “You wouldn’t have believed the arguments I got into, especially considering the way I went on to you about the force. My friends only just avoided calling me a fascist - at least, the ones that did are _still_ my friends. While at work I’m the tame pinko. Would you believe it? I’m starting to think that maybe I’m a liberal, but, god, it’s a hard thing to admit about yourself.”

“I think we must both have been in the same sort of arguments.”

“Mmm. But Brixton was nearly a year ago. You’ve waited a long time to resign if you felt like that about it.”

“Well, I’ve been in the force all my working life. Took me a long time to accept that I didn’t belong anymore. Especially when the changes were ... subtle.”

“What? Since Thatcher? Has it been that noticeable?”

“Eh? No, not changes in the force. In me. With being gay. It’s recent.”

“Ahh. That explains how you managed to stick it for so long. I did wonder. You never struck me as the sort of person who’d enjoy ... living a double life.”

“I didn’t.”

“Then I’m especially sorry I gave you a hard time. You had enough to sort out without me prying.”

“No. No, you were fun to work with. Made up for all the tricky moments.”

“Thanks.” A shy smile. “When you say recent ... Since Bodie? Not that it’s any of my business.”

It wasn’t. But she _was_ a friend, this meal the first of many. “Well, it’s a safe guess, isn’t it? It was a surprise, I can tell you.”

“Can imagine. Especially with _your_ jobs. Must have been very difficult for you.”

“It was. We didn’t make it first time round. Saw nothing of each other for a year and a half, and then I ... gave in, called him. Realised the sort of life I _could_ be having if I stopped trying to pretend nothing’d changed. So I resigned. Bodie’s easing out of his job too. Couple of years time ... who knows what we’ll be doing?”

“Sounds exciting.”

“Yeah. Could be terrifying, but ...” A shrug. “... I just know we’ll be OK.”

She looked at him, nodding and smiling. “You’re right, you are sickeningly happy, even on your own. It’s good to see you again. Especially out of the force.”

“And how are _you_? Apart from work and no tube station in Stoke Newington.”

“Oh, fine.”

He waited. And waited. “That’s it? ‘Oh, fine’. You get my personal life for the past three years, and I get, ‘Oh, fine’?”

“Oh.” Understanding. “You want to know if I’m a dyke.”

Blinking in surprise that was first real and then feigned. “Was that what I asked?”

“That’s what I heard. Actually, I’m nothing very much.”

“I find that difficult to believe.”

“Then you’ll have to try especially hard, won’t you?”

They looked at one another, then burst out laughing.

“No, I _am_ fine. Reading, cycling, keeping busy. I’m doing an evening class in Chinese. Takes up a fair bit of time.”

“Why? You thinking of travelling?”

“No. Sheer curiosity. I wanted to know how it works. I’m now licensed to bore people at parties by talking about inflection, and sketching the characters for ‘heart’ and ‘electricity’ and ‘bicycle’ on paper napkins. Next year I think I’ll try water divining.”

“Why _did_ you join the force?” It was now more a puzzle than ever.

She didn’t seem surprised by the turn in the conversation. “Well, when I was looking for jobs in my final year ... the ones in computing were all so _boring_. I’d worked for IBM one summer, and a little database company another, and, yeah, I’d come into work each day and enjoy what I was doing, but it wouldn’t mean the end of the world if _nobody_ did it. I couldn’t get excited about anything I was seeing, or about the idea of ... doing _that_ with my life, even if I did it brilliantly.

“So I was browsing in the Careers Library and I came across this stuff on the force and at first I read it just for a laugh, then I started thinking. And ... I realised that it’s one of the most difficult jobs there is. And one of the most worthwhile.”

“Making people feel safe.”

“Yes. And ... I thought about the sort of person who could do the job perfectly, and realised that that would be someone I could really admire. So I had to give it a shot. Had to find out if I could be that person. And I couldn’t.”

“Because of the force.”

“And me. I was ... acting a part all the time I was there. Maybe that’s how it’s done. No one ever talks about techniques, do they? But I couldn’t have kept it up much longer, even if the force had been perfect for me. And I’m not that great at thinking on my feet, either. It was only a matter of time before I screwed up.”

“I think ... you’re being hard on yourself. I think you could have ... got comfortable with the job if you’d got the right sort of support. You were good. Could have made a real difference.”

“Thanks, Ray. But I’m not sorry about the way things have turned out. It was a ... useful year, and I learnt a lot, especially from you. I grew up. And what I’m doing now ... well, I make people’s lives easier. It’s OK. And I’m not fighting against my own personality. It’s a decent balance.”

* * * * *

When Bodie let himself in, they were still sitting at the table, gesticulating over bowls of melting lemon sorbet as they discussed Woods.

“Hello, Ruth. Good to see you again.”

“There’s loads of chilli left if you’re hungry. And about a glass of wine.” He held up the bottle.

“I’m starving.” Bodie disappeared, came back shortly with a bowl, a spoon, and a glass, sat down and started eating with enthusiasm. “So’ve you found Ray a job?”

“Oh, we hadn’t got round to that. Are you ... desperate to get a job immediately? Or can you take time to get some qualifications?”

“Not desperate. Are we?”

Bodie shook his head.

Ruth smiled, flicking her eyes back to Doyle. “Then go for the qualifications. They’ll get you in at the right sort of level. After a certain point you learn the best stuff on the job, but you have to have put in a bit of background work before they give you that kind of job. “How much maths have you done?”

“’O’ Level, and a bit more when I was a cadet.”

“How d’you find it?”

Doyle shrugged. “OK.”

“Well, I think as a starting point you need to beef it up. When you’re actually working you don’t do much more than add. Once or twice a week. But the courses use maths in examples _a lot_ \- well, you saw it in that book - and it’ll stop you getting lost. You could do the ‘A’ level in a year, I’m sure.

“And you should get yourself a machine and start learning your way round it. Finding out what _really_ makes it work. A good thing for that is building your own - just a simple one - you can get kits. Learn the jargon. Read the magazines. I’ll lend you my course notes, my books and stuff. Give you a hand whenever you want it.

“A year of that _may_ be enough to get you something interesting. I mean, your background’s intriguing enough that people will probably want to take a look at you. Well, I would. But it would certainly be enough to get you into further education, even without any other ‘A’ Levels.”

“What sort of machine should I get?”

“Oh, my old one’ll do. The BBC. You can have it for fifty quid if you like. Including all the games. I’d give it you, but I _have_ to get a new printer, and I’m a bit skint at the moment. Bodie’s still Frogger champion, by the way.”

“Of course he is.” The men looked at one another for several seconds. Ruth drank some sorbet.

“Sounds like you’ve got a busy year ahead of you. Still interested?”

“Yeah.”

“You should get a second opinion, you know. And a third. I mean, _I_ did it the normal way, everything planned out for me. I don’t really know what it’s like for someone coming in late. I’ll ask around at work. And at college.”

Around ten, Doyle started yawning uncontrollably. “Sorry,” he said to Ruth. “Earlies. Catching up with me.”

“I’ll be off, then. I remember earlies.” She stood up, Bodie too. “There’s no need. I can get the bus.”

“Don’t. It’s no problem.”

Half an hour later, Bodie was back, looking bemused. “She was telling me about lion skulls being found in Stoke Newington. And elephants and hippos and bison in Trafalgar Square. Is she making it up?”

“Who knows? She just says whatever’s on her mind.”

“I noticed. What did you tell her about us?”

Doyle grimaced. “That we’re on honeymoon. Basically.”

“That’s what I guessed. She said it’ll take a few weeks for her to get her course notes together, and then we’ll go round and pick up everything in one go.”

“Good.” Then suspiciously, “You didn’t _pay_ for it, did you?”

“Nope.” He’d stopped himself, just in time.

“How’d it go this evening? With your shrink?”

“Good. How I’d expected. Think he’s waiting to see what happens.”

“D’you think you’ll be going for the rest of your life?”

“No. Not now.”

* * * * *

Later, in bed, Doyle’s cock filled noticeably. They both handled it with reverence and delight, and did not berate it when it subsided. “Soon,” Doyle whispered. “Soon.” The next day he bought a tube of K-Y in readiness, but even he was surprised when he came that night. It was nothing spectacular - just like a gentle transition - but it had happened.

“Will you do it tomorrow? When we get back from the club? Oh, that would be perfect.”

“Yes. I’ll do it.”

* * * * *

The next morning, his cock was wide awake. “Now?” he said hopefully.

Bodie shook his head. “I want us to take our time. Sleep afterwards. Not a rush like this.”

“You’re right. Tonight?”

“Tonight.”

But even after Bodie had sucked him dry, their kiss at the door revived him again, and he spent most of the day in a state of low-level excitement. He tried not to think about it - he wanted to save it for the night.

The angel glasses had gone up in price since Pete had last yearned over them. After some dithering, he bought just a pair - it was more romantic like that, anyway. Fortnum’s was close, and he got a bottle of champagne, for the evening, before they set off. It was an expensive day, especially since he’d also made a start on replenishing his wardrobe.

At ten o’clock, they took the tube into the West End, in no state to drive. They steadied themselves using the bar in the roof by the doors, hands touching on the metal. _Is it obvious_ , Doyle thought, _how much we want one another? How difficult it is not to reach out for him right now?_ He didn’t glance round to see if they were being watched - that would have meant taking his eyes off Bodie.

“Stallions” was starting to fill up. Doyle bought the first round while Bodie stayed close, looking round, his blink-rate up. Then they found a wall to lean against.

“You OK?”

“Fine. Just getting used to it. Didn’t know there _were_ so many. Of us.”

“I know. Got me like that the first time.”

They didn’t go out onto the dance-floor, just stood in their spot with their arms around one another, swaying when the mood took them. Doyle was most content.

No one was watching them - they were just another couple who couldn’t keep their hands off one another. Except ...

“Oh, God.” Doyle raised his head from Bodie’s shoulder and pulled away slightly.

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh shit.”

Bodie turned round to face the room, following Doyle’s gaze. All his eyes found to settle on was a small man with a moustache, who was looking towards them with an expression that Bodie decided was growing determination.

“Ray? Who is it? Ray?”

“Pete.”

“That’s Pete?” He was surprised. Couldn’t imagine Ray with the man. Probably just as well. Pete was moving towards them, threading his way slowly around the intervening bodies.

“Oh, God. He’s going to do it.”

“Do what?”

“Tell you I’m a copper. He said he’d do it if he saw me with another man. After I lied to him. I told you how angry he was.”

Bodie didn’t reply. His face hardened, and he glared at Pete, who continued his advance.

“God, he’s got guts,” muttered Doyle under his breath, having glanced at Bodie’s expression, which would have stopped _him_ in his tracks. Then he tugged Bodie’s arm. “Go easy on him, or ... let me deal with this. I did a shitty thing to him. He’s only doing what he thinks is right. He wants to save you from me - as well as getting his own back.”

Bodie looked at him, then relaxed slightly. “I’ll go easy ... if he behaves himself.”

 _Not much chance of that_. “Hello, Pete.”

Pete ignored him. “I’ve come to warn you. Don’t believe a word he’s told you about himself. He’s a copper. Lying’s his hobby. It’s what he _really_ gets off on.”

“Bodie!” A warning and a plea. “He knows, Pete. He’s always known.”

“How’d you find out? He leave his truncheon under the bed? Must be getting careless.”

“Look, Pete, I’m sorry about what I did to you. Really sorry. But there’s no point in doing this. Not with him. He’s always known, and he doesn’t care.”

“And he’ll probably thump you if you say anything more.”

Finally, Pete looked at Doyle, and then back at Bodie. “Jesus, you’re one too.”

“Near enough.”

A change of tone, and now Pete was speaking to Doyle alone. “Why didn’t you stick to your own kind? Why’d you come out and prey on regular people? Didn’t you realise we trusted you, let you into our lives?”

“Pete, it wasn’t like that. I wasn’t being some sort of parasite. Not deliberately. I was confused. Wanted to get away from being a copper for a while, but it all got out of hand. The last thing I wanted was to make you and the Daves feel ...”

“Betrayed.” Very hard.

“I’m sorry.”

“He is, Pete.”

“What do _you_ know about it?”

“What Ray’s told me. He said you were good to him, and what he did to you was shitty.”

A pause.

“I’ve resigned from the force, if that makes any difference. Are the Daves here?”

“Somewhere.”

“Your room been redecorated yet?”

“No. ‘s just the same.”

“Would you like a drink?” That was Bodie. The other two men looked at him, surprised. He shrugged. “I’m thirsty.”

“’nother beer, please. What about you, Pete?”

“Oh.” A brief internal struggle. “A Red Stripe. Please.”

Bodie left. Pete and Doyle looked at one another.

“Is he trying to get away from the fight? Or what?”

“Maybe he thinks there won’t be one if you have a drink he’s bought.”

“Ah. Once I’ve broken bread with you, and all that. So you didn’t tell him _all_ that much about me.”

“I _am_ sorry, Pete. Like I said, I was confused at the time.”

“And now?”

“Not so bad.”

“’s that why you told him the truth? Turned over a new leaf?”

“Well, I have but ... he knew all along. I met him through work.”

Pete appraised him in the dim, flickering lighting, finally nodding grudgingly. “You _do_ seem different. More sure of yourself. You never _really_ let us know who you were. Dave thought you were just shy, but I reckoned not. But we _were_ right about you liking them beefy, eh?”

“I like them like him. Just like him.” Soft and definite.

Pete raised his eyebrows. “Specifically?”

“Very specifically.”

“What’s his name?”

“William Bodie. He generally prefers ‘Bodie’.” A pause. “You’ve used his toothbrush.”

“But you said that one was long gone. Were you -“

“He was. That was part of what I was confused about.”

“Ah. Rebound stuff.”

“Yeah. Again, sorry.”

“Well ...” Studying a point above Doyle’s head. “... I can feel myself about to forgive you. A few more drinks should do it.”

With excellent timing, Bodie was back, holding out a sweating can to Pete.

“Thanks. That was quick. You’ve obviously got more bar-presence than I have.”

“ _Nobody_ ignores Bodie.”

“I believe you.”

“How’s work?”

“Oh, fine. Best it’s been in a while, actually. My first-year ‘A’ Level class is really great. They’re keen. And curious. And they work as a team, help one another out. It’s bizarre. I don’t know what I’m doing right.”

Doyle’s ears pricked up at the mention of Maths ‘A’ Level, and he explained his plans to Pete and asked his advice. It turned out that Pete also ran the Computer Club at school. Bodie started to join in as he became more and more comfortable with the subject.

At one point, Bodie and Doyle took a brief detour to discuss furniture arrangements to accommodate Ruth’s computer, and returned to Pete to find him shaking his head at them.

“You know, you two remind me _so_ much of the Daves. I’ll have to invite you to dinner one night, and the four of you can talk about lagging, and I’ll sit in the corner and play patience.”

“I don’t know anything about lagging,” said Bodie.

“You’re saying we’re boring,” said Doyle.

“Oh, it’s not that. It’s just ... Well, you should see yourselves. It’s not what I’m looking for, that’s all.”

“Pete’s a single man and proud of it.” Doyle was smiling.

“I am. But there’s couples everywhere I look. I think they put something in the water.”

Bodie and Doyle left an hour later without meeting the Daves or any of the others, but with a fairly firm invitation to dinner in a few weeks’ time. They’d had the last half hour to themselves - the slow dances started, and they decided fairly quickly that they needed to be home.

In the taxi, Bodie said, “I enjoyed that.”

“Me too. Sorry about Pete.”

“Oh, I thought we did very well. I guess that was mild compared with ... well, the last time you saw him.”

“God, yes. D’you mind going to dinner?”

“No. I’ve gotta meet these Daves, after all this.”

* * * * *

“How would you like it? What do you like best?” Bodie was leaning over Doyle, fingers skimming his stomach.

“From behind, usually. That’s what I want now.”

“What makes it best?” Voice very low, breathing into Doyle’s mouth.

“The feeling’s ... purest.” Almost a whisper. “Because the angle’s easiest. Natural. Like there’s nothing in the world except your cock inside me, and you all along my back. Wrapped around me. And you can move as slow or as hard as you want. And I can move too.”

A kiss, deep and moist and noisy. Bodie’s hand explored the fringes of Doyle’s pubic hair, stroking and pulling, but venturing no further.

“What’s best for you?”

“The same. I feel like I’m in so deep I could disappear inside you forever, become a part of you, just the way I want. And you’re so beautiful like that, you’ve no idea. Your back. And your legs. So long. And strong. And they seem to be pointing to it, to your arse, as if it’s the centre of you.”

“It is when you’re in it.”

Another kiss. Doyle stroked down Bodie’s back to the crack between his buttocks, and let the tips of his fingers drift up and down along it, circling and teasing.

Bodie raised his head a fraction of an inch. “Sometimes something else is best, though. I like to see your face. Like to taste you. All of you is beautiful. I need to make love to all of you.”

“Yes. Oh, yes. But now ... You know what I want now.” He turned over onto his face and parted his legs. Bodie fumbled with shaking hands as he tried to pierce the seal on the tube. When he succeeded, there was a gush onto his palm, and over the cap - not where he most needed it. He dropped the cap, and wrapped his hand around his cock, removing the gel from his palm by the most direct method, gasping as he did so. He didn’t linger, but Doyle recognised the sound, and raised his hips in readiness, gasping in his turn.

With an effort, Bodie resisted the urge to mount him immediately, and swallowed the saliva that had flooded his mouth. He was too dry, much too dry, and he didn’t know how long it had been for Ray.

First, he spread the gel around the puckered edges of the hole, not even trying the resistance of the muscle.

“Oh, Bodie. Please.” Hips raised further.

“I want you to be ready.”

“Ready? Oh, Jesus. What d’you think I’m telling you?”

“I have to be sure.”

“Then _make_ sure. Stick your fingers in and _see_ how ready I am.”

Bodie coated his fingertips thoroughly, then pressed just his index finger in, while Doyle moaned and pressed back. When it was in over the second knuckle, he stopped, and tried to be objective about the sensations.

“More. More, damn you. Don’t tease me like this. I want your _cock_.”

“You’re tighter. Much tighter. You think you’re ready, but you’re not. I won’t risk hurting you.”

“Aa-oh.” A long groan. Doyle slumped back onto the bed. “Oh, Bodie.” After several seconds he rolled partway onto his back, and looked up at his frowning lover. “Come here.” Gentle, with a gesturing hand. A slow kiss. “Take whatever time you need.” Then he turned back again.

Bodie continued lubricating and testing, reassured already by Doyle’s acceptance. Doyle was much quieter, but not silent.

“Oh, that’s good. It doesn’t hurt, love. It doesn’t hurt at all.”

A kiss on Doyle’s shoulder-blade, then another. “ _I_ ’m ready now, Ray.”

“Good.” Doyle raised his hips again, patient this time, waiting for whatever Bodie wanted to give him. Strong hands steadied him and opened him, and then a precious part of Bodie was pressing into him with great care. Maybe four years ago he would have classified some of this feeling as pain, but much had changed since then. “Oh. Oh, love, that’s wonderful. You’re so good. Aaah. I can feel your hair now, pressing against me. Prickly. Ah. Remember how much I like that?”

“Yes. Oh, yes.” Bodie’s left hand, still slippery with lubricant, grasped Doyle’s cock, stroked its length, then circled the head, squeezing and rubbing. Doyle jerked his hips back helplessly, then rocked in small motions, moaning quietly.

“Bodie.” Urgent. “I’m not going to last long. Give me less, or give me more. Either way, fuck me before I come.”

Bodie settled on more, driving hard and fast, matching Doyle’s cries with his own.

* * * * *

“Dear _God_ , that was worth waiting for.”

Doyle was still on his stomach, Bodie half-lying on him, half-slid to the side. The bed was awash.

“I didn’t mean to tease. To keep you waiting.”

“ _I_ know that. Would be OK even if you did. But after this, will you accept it when I tell you I’m ready? Course, what you decide to do about it after that is up to you.”

“Yes.”

Some minutes of slowing respiration.

“I think I’m going to be ready again before too long. What about you?”

“Ray.” A plea? “Yes. In a while.” Pause. “The neighbours are going to hate us.”

“Nah. Be an education for ‘em.”

“What d’you fancy -“

“You.”

“Mmm. For when you’re ready? What’s top of the list now?”

“Oh, same thing. Suit you?”

“Down to the ground.”

“Nice to try a different pace, though. Just for a change. Why’n’t you -“ His voice roughened. “- slam in quick? Cut out the lead-in. Try to surprise me, even. I’m so full of K‑Y and spunk, seems a shame to waste it.” Bodie’s heart was hammering again. “Then ... make it last. Stay in me as long as you can. Make me forget what it’s like to have an empty arse.” Then his tone became conversational. “Or shall we just catch up on some sleep?”

Very suddenly Bodie rolled onto his back, pulling Doyle on top, and seized his head. When he released him, he was panting. “God, Ray. Oh, God. ‘n’ I thought you were something else _before_. You’re gonna wear me out.”

“Not a chance.”

“What happened? Did Pete -“

“No. You. You started to show me what I want. But I was frightened of it before - it was so new. I’m not frightened now.” And he wasn’t. And it was some time before they slept that night.

It was to be Doyle’s last week of lates, and he thought it might be the easiest week of his month’s notice. The shift finished at eleven, and Bodie would be waiting for him when he got home. Straight from work to Bodie. No matter what happened during the shift, he knew that he would not have to wait in the flat, alone, just thinking. Of course, he was alone for several hours before the shift, but that was no problem, because all he was thinking about then was Bodie, and sex with Bodie.

Nights were going to be difficult. He probably _would_ see Bodie after work, if only for half an hour, and then they’d have a few hours in the evenings, but they wouldn’t be able to sleep together. The hazards of earlies he already knew.

* * * * *

On Tuesday, Bodie said, “It’s Reeves’ birthday on Thursday. D’you mind if I go down the pub after work? Just for a couple of hours.”

“Course I don’t mind. I’ll be working.”

“I know but ... I like to get home as fast as possible. Feel odd if I don’t.”

“Don’t drink too much.”

“I won’t.”

“I have plans for you that’ll be ruined if you drink too much.”

“Nothing but coke.” Bodie wiggled his eyebrows.

* * * * *

Thursday the 4th of March was his last day of lates. He spent the quiet moments thinking about the celebrations for their anniversary, which would fall on a Saturday in the middle of his long weekly leave. It was perfect.

The Thursday might even be an anniversary itself, though this one was nothing to celebrate. Doyle had been thinking about this too, but Woods was the one who spoke of it, shortly before six.

“’bout three years now, since Mike died, isn’t it?”

“Give or take a week. I lost track of the time around then.”

“You think of him?”

“Yes.” Doyle nodded slowly.

“He was a good laugh, was Mike.”

“Yes, he was.”

“How did he die? You never talked about it when you got back.”

“He was knifed. For no reason that I could see. Or they just wanted to show that they could do it.”

“Were you there?”

“Yes.”

Slight pause, then a change of tone. “D’you remember when he had the bet on with Jennings ...” They swapped stories of Mike Russell for the next ten minutes.

“And the stories he got from ‘News of the World’. Or _said_ he got. Half the time I reckon he made them up.” Doyle smiled crookedly as he remembered those night shifts with Mike.

“You never could tell with Mike, could you? Like, he always used to tell us how he tried to get you going.”

“What?” Doyle was no longer smiling.

“On night shifts, he said. He’d tell you a few stories, and your eyes would glaze over, and you’d be pulling your flies down, begging him to jerk you off. He used to act it out. Hilarious it was.” Woods threw his head back and closed his eyes, and started moaning. “Harder! Oh God, like that. Oh!”

Doyle flicked his eyes from the road and saw Woods as he’d seen him at that Christmas party. He took the next left turn, into a run-down industrial street.

Woods was laughing heartily. “Course, you never knew whether to believe him. But he told it so _well_. And he had all these little details. Like, the stories that _rea_ -“ The car had come to an abrupt stop. “Why’ve -“ The impact of Doyle’s fist slammed him sideways, into the window, which shattered into small fragments. The section left in the frame scraped his face and scalp as he slumped back into the car, held up by the seatbelt. He didn’t move, but his breathing was audible.

Doyle leapt out of the car and ran towards the main road, without shutting the door, and without looking back. He carried on running until he got to the tube station, slowing only once - to ditch his radio when it started squawking at him.

He got the Northern Line direct to Embankment, and ran to Whitehall from there. Bodie hadn’t said which pub they’d be in. And it changed so often. He started with “The Trafalgar”. Nothing, though he looked in all the nooks and crannies, even in the gents.

Next, “The Lamb and Flag”. Nothing. “The Red Lion”. Nothing. “The Earl of Cornwallis”. Nothing.

He had run out of CI5 pubs.

Maybe he _wouldn’t_ find Bodie. He’d have to go home, and ... But his keys were in his locker, his car was at the station. He’d have hours to wait. And the relief would be looking for him. He _had_ to find Bodie. Simply had to.

There were other pubs in the area - thousands if they’d gone into the West End. Or they might already have gone on for a meal. He started at Westminster tube station and worked his way steadily north. The panic was now obvious on his face, but no one in the pubs or on the street even glanced at him; he was in full uniform, and people were not anxious to meet his eye.

He was nearly at Embankment again. Have to decide whether to stay by the river, or head out into the West End. Maybe the whole of the Met was looking for him by now. One last pub in this area. Victorian, high ceilings. Crowded at this time of day. He scanned the room, moving only a few paces in from the door. Nothing. But on his second pass, one face to the left of the door stood out from the rest. It was looking at him in surprise. Then it turned to the side.

“Bodie! Your friend’s here. Ray.”

Further round to the left was an alcove with a window seat and a couple of tables. Doyle had missed it, concentrating on the sea of faces.

Bodie was already on his feet. As the crowd of young men parted to let Doyle through, Bodie took one look at his expression, and stepped forward, arms open. Doyle’s helmet fell off as he pressed his face against Bodie’s neck.

“Shhh, Ray. It’s alright. I’ve got you. Shhh. It’s alright now, love.”

After some seconds of disbelief, the CI5 men moved to close the gap, screening the pair from the rest of the pub. Bodie was facing the room, his eyes nearly closed at first as he concentrated on Doyle, murmuring reassurances and endearments, stroking the curly hair with unmistakable tenderness. Doyle’s face was hidden from sight.

Bodie raised his head in time to see Lucas heading away from the group into the body of the pub. Towards the ‘phones, probably. He was quite calm as he glanced around the circle, meeting any eyes that cared to meet his, indifferent to any expression of contempt or triumph or narrow-eyed speculation, or simple surprise. Ray was all that mattered. He lowered his head again, waiting patiently for Doyle’s grip to ease, for some sign that he would soon be ready to move.

“What’s this about, man?” Cowley had arrived in the pub. Bodie heard no reply to the question, but the group shifted once again.

Bodie had not often seen the Scotsman at a loss for words. They stared at one another for several seconds, though Cowley’s eyes kept flicking to Doyle. He probably didn’t recognise him, or not directly, but there was enough information for him to make a reasonable guess. In the end he returned his gaze to Bodie, and after a frowning examination, opened his mouth.

“Yes, sir. It’s exactly what you think it is.” He felt Doyle become tense in his arms. Ray probably wasn’t fully aware of what was happening, but he would know that Bodie’s attention had shifted, and that would disturb him. Bodie continued the gentle movement of his hands, and drew Ray closer. It seemed to help.

“Why like this, 3.7? Are you _trying_ to ruin the department?”

“This was an accident. And it’s got nothing to do with the department. You were never supposed to know.”

“That does not make this any better.”

“No, sir, I know. Look, I’ll tell you everything, sir, but, please, not here. Not now. I have to take care of Ray. Tomorrow. Please.”

“You won’t be in the country tomorrow. I know the contacts you have.”

“No. I won’t run away. Because I’m not frightened. I know what I am, what it means. Put a tail on me. You’ll see.”

After a long pause: “My office. Eight in the morning.”

“Thank you, sir.” But Cowley had already turned away, and was making his way out of the pub. Bodie turned his full attention to Doyle again.

Eventually Doyle loosened his grip and raised his head. By that time most of the CI5 men had stopped gawping and started talking - about Bodie principally, and what Cowley would do.

“You OK, love?” Bodie cupped Doyle’s face, and spoke very gently.

Doyle nodded, and leaned forward for a kiss, aware only of one person.

Bodie stopped him with a finger pressed lightly to his lips. “Not here. Soon. Let’s go home.”

Doyle jerked.

“You don’t want to go home?”

“They’ll be looking for me.”

“Who?”

“The force. I hit Woods. I -“

“OK. We’ll go to my place. Are you ready?”

Doyle stepped back, and turned around, only then becoming aware of the spectators. Bodie’s hand gripped his shoulder. “Don’t worry about them. There’s just us, remember.” With that, Doyle returned the stares as calmly as Bodie had done.

The group parted for a final time, and soon they were standing on the pavement. Doyle took the helmet being offered, and replaced it on his head.

“D’you bring your car?”

“No.”

“We’ll take mine, then. It’s back at HQ.”

They walked slowly. Bodie didn’t bother looking round for the tail.

At the car, Doyle said, “But you’ve been drinking.”

“Not much. It’s OK. I know my limits.”

The distance to the flat was short - just over a mile - but the traffic was terrible. When he could, Bodie reached over and held Doyle’s hand, or his thigh. But Ray seemed to be recovered now.

“You’ve lost your job, haven’t you? Because of me.” They were on Park Lane, waiting for the lights to change.

“Yeah. Don’t worry. We’ll be fine. You know that.”

“But ... a year or two, you said.”

“That was one part of the plan. If IS were their usual dozy selves. The other part was ... something like this. I knew it might happen. It’s no big deal, Ray. Cowley’ll yell at me, but he does that anyway. Doesn’t bother me. None of it. You’ve done me a favour.”

They didn’t talk again until they were inside the flat.

“Gin and tonic?”

“Mmm. I’ll get them.”

“No need. Why don’t you get changed instead? Get the weight of the helmet off your head.”

When Doyle joined Bodie on the settee a few minutes later, he was wearing the ancient, threadbare tracksuit.

“So what happened? What’d he do?”

Doyle told him.

“I’d have done the same, Ray. Bastards. Both of them. All of them.”

“Yeah. But I thought I _knew_ Mike. Thought ... we were friends. Partners. That we had something the rest of the relief didn’t. I even thought - after I’d met you - that he might have been ... courting me, that that was the only way he could get close.”

“Maybe he was. If he couldn’t cope with what he felt ... well, it makes people do strange things. You know.”

“Yes. I don’t think ... I can forgive him, though.”

“There’s nothing so great about forgiving people. If someone does something shitty to you, why shouldn’t you stay angry?”

“Pete forgave _me_.”

“You explained. He understood.”

“Maybe Mike could have explained.”

“Maybe. You reckon Woods is OK?”

“Yeah. Just a few scratches. And a bump on his head. I think ...” He frowned. “... they were looking for me even before I got to the tube station, before I chucked the radio away. So he must have come round almost immediately.”

“What d’you think they’ll do?”

“Well, normally there’d be a disciplinary hearing. I’d probably get chucked out, since I can’t claim I was provoked. Well, I could, but it would do me more harm than good. But since I’ve only got another fortnight to go ...” A shrug. “I dunno. I can forget about references, though.”

“What about Woods? ‘s he going to push things?”

“Well, he’ll take a swing at me on Saturday. While his mates hold me down. Call me queer. Nothing I can’t handle.”

“How about doing you for assault?”

“Mmm. Not his style. They’d take the piss if he did that, say he couldn’t sort me out on his own.”

Bodie sighed and stretched, arching his neck. “Well. Could be worse. Let’s see what we can do about Saturday, though.”

“Yeah. I’ll call you when it’s over. You can come round with a First Aid kit.” It was a fairly serious suggestion.

“No. I mean, so’s you never have to go back.”

“I can’t do a runner. That _would_ land me in the shit. We’d never get clear of it then.”

“Not a runner. More ... a sick note.”

“And who’s going to write it? You gonna forge my mum’s signature?”

“Cowley.”

“But ... you’re deeper in the shit than I am. He’s not going to do you any favours.”

“He might. If I handle it properly. We’ve always got on. When I had my breakdown he was good to me. Left me alone when he could have locked me up with Ross. _Should_ have done, if he was only thinking of the squad. If I tell him you’re going through the same thing - no details - and you just need what I needed then, and that if you have to go into work it’ll set you right back, and do the force no good ... Well, he’ll listen, anyway.”

“I’ll get through it, you know. Even if he doesn’t.”

“I know. But let’s try it, eh?”

* * * * *

The next morning Doyle got up with Bodie, and made him coffee and toast while he was in the shower. They kissed goodbye in the dark hallway.

“This could be the last time, Ray. Here, I mean. I might have to clear out today, with Lucas and McCabe watching to see that I do it.”

“I’ll be ready.”

* * * * *

The corridors of CI5 were starting to fill, even at ten to eight. The word had obviously spread overnight. There were none of the usual greetings - just stares, and silence.

Cowley was already in his office. Bodie knocked on the half-open door.

“Shut the door and sit down.”

They studied one another again. Then Bodie leant forward and laid his handgun, his keys and his ID on the desk.

“I’m sorry, sir. I’d hoped I’d never have to put you in this position.”

“You should have thought of that seven years ago. How did you get through the vetting?”

Bodie shrugged. “How does anyone? But there was nothing for them to find then. If it makes it any better, it’s only ever been Ray.”

“You want me to believe you suddenly turned queer? After spending half your life working with nothing but men? What are you trying to hide?”

“Nothing. Maybe I was and I never knew. Until I met Ray in Africa.”

“That must have been ... three years ago.”

“Yes. We tried to ... keep up appearances at first. But recently ... We want to be together. It’s the most important thing in our lives. No job’s worth more.”

“Very touching. The Home Secretary will understand immediately.”

“I _am_ sorry, sir. You’ve been good to me, I know. You don’t deserve this. But the squad’s been through _much_ worse. Like Barry Martin. And the Mather woman. I’m _not_ a security problem. Because I’m not ashamed of what I am, and I don’t want to keep this job. I can’t be blackmailed, and no one’s tried. Yeah, it’s embarrassing because IS should have picked it up, but that’s all. I don’t see that the Home Secretary even has to know.”

“You wouldn’t. What happened yesterday? Or is that how the two of you always behave?”

“Ray’s recovering from a breakdown. Far worse than the one I had. It peaked a couple of weeks ago. He’s OK when he’s with me, but on his own ... Every day I worry what sort of state he’ll be in at the end of his shift. He’s resigned from the force, but he’s still got a fortnight to go, and it’s been very hard on him.

“Yesterday, something happened, and ... he flipped. Thumped his partner. Jumped out of his panda car. Chucked his RT in the bin. And came looking for me, because I’m the only person who can sort him out. Remember, sir, he’s _ill_. He doesn’t need strong-arm tactics. No disciplinary procedure. Or instant justice in the locker room. He just needs peace and quiet. A chance to sort _himself_ out. Like you gave me, when I was in his state.”

“What are you asking, Bodie?” Impatient.

“Call his station. Explain. Have them ... close his file. I don’t want him to have to go back to work. He just ... wouldn’t make it.”

“You really think I’d do that for you? After this?”

“That’s what Ray said. I know I don’t deserve anything. But I _have_ worked hard for you, sir. I’ve done my best. And it would just be a ‘phone call. But it would make such a difference. He’s in pain. You saw that yesterday. He’s a strong man. You know that. Just imagine what it’s taken to bring him to this.”

“How did you let it happen, then? You seem so sure about what’s good for him.”

“I wasn’t around.”

Silence in the room. Betty’s voice in the corridor outside.

Cowley picked up the green ‘phone on his desk, and dialled three digits. “Tell Lucas to report to my office.” Then he addressed Bodie. “He will take you to clear your locker and then escort you from the building. You have a week to vacate the flat. Report here at the same time next Friday with the keys and your next address. You will be under surveillance.”

Bodie nodded. “Will you call the station?”

“I will. For Doyle. Not for you.”

“Ray left some things in his locker, too. Could

you -“

“Yes.”

Bodie put a small key and a card on the desk. “His locker-key. And address. It’s my address, too.”

There was a knock on the door. “Come in.” It was Lucas. “Take him to his locker and then see him out of the building. Then report back here.”

Bodie stood up and retrieved the keys to the flat. “Thank you, sir. I’m sorry. Goodbye.” But Cowley ignored him and reached for his in-tray.

There were five people in the locker room when they arrived, and the numbers increased as the word spread. Bodie lifted his sports bag out, and filled it with the change of clothes, the electric razor, the toothbrush and paste, the shampoo, and the towel. He didn’t hurry. When the space was empty, he knelt to zip up the bag, then rose with it in his right hand. “Let’s go.”

Lucas said nothing, just turned towards the door. Some of the agents followed the two of them out of the room and downstairs, and then Bodie was alone on the pavement. He shrugged, hefted the bag, then turned towards the Houses of Parliament and the tube station. He was smiling.

The End

Started: May 1990, Stavanger

Finished: June 1992, London


End file.
